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Low o'er the grass the swallow wings;
The cricket, too, how loud she sings !
Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws,
Sits wiping o'er her whisker'd jaws-
'Twill surely rain, I see, with sorrow,
Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow.

SONG.

SIR EDWAR DYER.

My mind to me a kingdom is ;

Such perfect joy therein I find, As far exceeds all earthly bliss,

That God or nature hath assign'd; Though much I want that most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

Content I live, this is my stay ;
I seek no more than

may

suffice ; I press to bear no haughty sway ;

Look, what I lack, my mind supplies ;
Lo! thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my mind doth bring.

My wealth is health and perfect ease,

My conscience clear, my chief defence ; I never seek by bribes to please,

Nor by desert, to give offence. Thus do I live, thus will I die, Would all did so as well as I.

THE SUNLIGHT.

ANON.

BLESSED is the Sunlight! giving joy unto the child
Chasing the butterfly, beautiful and wild,
Where the banks are waving thick, with grasses fresh and

sweet,
And the daisy noddeth at his little feet.
Blessed is the Sunlight to the eyes of weary age,
Care-worn, and fading, from earthly pilgrimage!
Looking out from heaven's plains, his latest, perfect home ;
Softly it beameth, and beckons him to come.
Blessed is the Sunlight ! for it rests on rich and poor ;
Glowing through the forest, gladdening the moor;
Gratefully regard it, falling o'er the verdant sod;
Bow before its glory !it is the smile of God!

MOONLIGHT.

W. H. B.

SILENT tears pale night is weeping

O'er the drooping silver rose ;
Moonlight on the lake is sleeping ;

Earth with dewy splendour glows.
And a melody is blending

With the night wind's gentle sigh;
Like a seraph's song descending,

From her dwelling-place on high.
At this sweet hour a chastening spell,

May o'er the spirit fall ;
Fond memory will the bosom swell

And long-lost friends recall ;
While fancy paints yon lovely star,

That glitters in the west,
Serenely beaming from afar-

Their hallow'd place of rest.

STANZAS.

PRINCESS AMELIA.

UNTHINKING, idle, wild, and young,
I laugh'd, and danc'd, and talk'd, and sung:
And proud of health, of freedom vain,
Dream'd not of sorrow, care, or pain ;
Concluding, in those hours of glee,
That all the world was made for me.
But when the hour of trial came,
When sickness shook this trembling frame,
When folly's gay pursuits were o'er,
And I could dance and sing no more,—
It then occurr'd how sad 'twould be
Were this world only made for me.

RECOLLECTION.

DR. BOWRING.

WAEN mem'ry looks back on the record of years,

Ere reason and feeling decay ; .
Ere the footsteps we leave in this valley of tears

Are swept by oblivion away,
'Tis sweet, when delight has been sober'd by age,

To glance on its mirrors again,
To glide o'er the clouds of adversity's page-

They seem not so desolate then.
As the tempest brings calm ; as the hqar-frost the spring ;

As the dawning disperses in day ;.
So the sun and the shade of vicissitude fling

A beautiful light on our way;
And passion and rapture, when temper'd by thought,

No trace but of happiness leave ;
E'en grief when remember'd, is tranquilly taught

How rain-how ungrateful-to grieve.

Life's briers and roses—its gladness and gloom,

Do they vanish together?-Oh, no! The flow'rets we pluck, and condense their perfume,

The weeds to the desert we throw. Like the bee, thoughts fly o'er the fields of the past,

Finding sweets wheresoever they roam: They wander through sunshine and storm, and at last

Store nought but their honey at home.

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THE WINTER ROBIN.

CHARLOTTE SMITH.

A SUPPLIANT to your window comes,

Who trusts your faith, and fears no guile :
He claims admittarice for your crumbs,
And reads his passport

in
your

smile. For cold and cheerless is the day,

And he has sought the hedges round; No berry hangs upon the spray,

Nor worm nor ant-egg can be found. Secure his suit will be preferr’d,

No fears his slender feet deter; For sacred is the household bird,

That wears the scarlet stomacher.

COMPASSION AND FORGIVENESS.

SCOTT.

I HEAR the voice of woe;

A brother mortal mourns ;
My eyes with tears, for tears, o'erflow;

My heart his sighs returns.
I hear the thirsty cry ;

The famish'd beg for bread :
O let my spring its streams supply ;

My hand its bounty shed.-
And shall not wrath relent,

Touch'd by that humble strain,
My brother crying, “I repent,

Nor will offend again ?”
How else, on sprightly wing,

Can hope bear high my pray'r,
Up to thy throne, my God, my king,

To plead for pardon there?

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