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And hills all rich with blossom'd trees,

And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scatter'd cities crowning these,

Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strew'd a scene, which I should see
With double joy wert thou with me.
And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes,

And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise ;

Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of gray,

And many a rock which steeply lowers,
And noble arch in proud decay,

Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers.
But one thing want these banks of Rhine,
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!
I send the lilies given to me;

Though, long before thy hand they touch,
I know that they must wither'd be,

But yet reject them not as such ; For I have cherish'd them as dear,

Because they yet may meet thine eye,
And guide thy soul to mine even here,

When thou behold'st them drooping nigh,
And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine,
And offer'd from my heart to thine!
The river nobly foams and flows,

The charm of this enchanted ground,
And all its thousand turns disclose

Some fresher beauty varying round: The haughtiest breast its wish

might bound Through life to dwell delightful here ; Nor could on earth a spot be found

To nature and to me so dear,
Could thy dear eyes in following mine
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine

BYRON THE SABBATH.

What spell has o'er the populous city past?

The wonted current of its life is stay'd; Its sports, its gainful schemes are earthward cast,

As though their vileness were at once display'd ; The roar of trade has ceas'd, and on the air Come holy songs, and solemn sounds of prayer.

Far spreads the charm: from every hamlet spire
A note of rest, and heavenward thought is

peal'd:
By his calm hearth reclines the peasant sire;

The toil-worn steed basks in the breezy field. Within, without, through farm and cottage blest, 'Tis one bright day of gladness and of rest.

Down from the mountain dwellings, whilst the dew Shines on the heath-bells, and the fern is bend

ing In the fresh breeze, in festive garbs I view Childhood, and age, and buoyant youth descend

ing. God! — who has pild thy wonders round their

home, 'Tis in their love they to thy temple come.

A stately ship speeds o'er the mighty main

Oh! many a league from our own happy land: Yet from its heart ascends the choral strain;

For there its little isolated band, Amid the ocean desert's awful roar Praise Him whose love links shore to distant shore. O’er palmy woods, where summer radiance falls,

In the glad islands of the Indian main, What thronging crowds the missionary calls To raise to heaven the Christian's glorious

strain! Lo! where, engirt by children of the sun, Stands the white man, and counts his victories

Won.

In the fierce deserts of a distant zone,

Mid savage nations, terrible and stern, A lonely atom, sever'd from his own,

The traveller wends, death or renown to earn. Parch’d, fasting, wearied, verging to despair, He kneels, he prays-hope kindles in his prayer. O'er the wide world, blest day, thine influence flies,

Rest o'er the sufferer spreads her balmy wings; Love wakes, joy dawns, praise fills the listening

skies; The expanding heart from earth's enobantment

springs: Heaven, for one day, withdraws its ancient ban, Unbars its gates, and dwells once more with man.

W. HowITT.

ON A STREAM OF WATER.

HERE We see The water at its well-head; clear it is, Not more transpicuous the invisible air; Pure as an infant's thoughts; and here to life And good directed all its uses serve. The herb grows greener on its brink; sweet Bend o'er the stream that feeds their freshen'd

flowers

roots; The redbreast loves it for his wintry haunts, And, when the buds begin to open forth, Builds near it, with his mate, their brooding nest; The thirsty stag with widening nostrils there Invigorated draws his copious draught; And there amid its flags the wild-boar stands, Nor suffering wrong nor meditating hurt. Through woodlands wide and solitary fields Unsullied thus it holds its bounteous course; But when it reaches the resorts of men, The service of the city there defiles The tainted stream; corrupt and foul it flows Through loathsome banks and o'er a bed impure, Till in the sea, the appointed end to which Through all its way it hastens, 'tis receivid, And, losing all pollution, mingles there In the wide world of waters. So is it With the great stream of things, if all were seen; Good the beginning, good the end shall be, And transitory evil only make The good end happier. Ages pass away, Thrones fall, and nations disappear, and worlds Grow old and go to wreck; the soul alone Endures, and what she chooseth for herself, The arbiter of her own destiny, That only shall be permanent.

SOUTHEY.

LOSS OF TIME.

SOME care not how they trifle life away ;
A hero wept if he but lost a day!

LEIGH.

ECHO AND SILENCE.

In eddying course when leaves began to fly,

And Autumn in her lap the store to strew,

As mid wild scenes I chanc'd the muse to woo, Through glens untrod, and woods that frown'd

on high, Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy!

And lo, she's gone! In robe of dark-green hue,

'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew ; For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the

sky! In shade affrighted Silence melts away;

Not so her sister : hark! for onward still
With far-heard step she takes her listening way,

Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill!
Oh, mark the merry maid in mockful play
With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest
fill!

BRYDGES.

WASHINGTON.

*

GREAT Washington! in simple grandeur spines
Thy glory, far above the vulgar glare
Of Cæsar's

Oh ! how fair
Is self-denying power, that virtue rare.
The guardian of his country's weal secures
A pure renown, if he avoid the snare

To which ambition oft the wise allures ;
He who can brave the storm not alway sun endures.

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