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Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer,

Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,

And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.

AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY.

The day is ending,
The night is descending ;
The marsh is frozen,

The river dead.

Through clouds like ashes,
The red sun flashes
On village windows

That glimmer red.

The snow recommences ;
The buried fences
Mark no longer

The road o'er the plain ;

While through the meadows,
Like fearful shadows,
Slowly passes

A funeral train.

The bell is pealing, And every feeling Within me responds

To the dismal knell ;

Shadows are trailing, My heart is bewailing And tolling within

Like a funeral bell.

TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK.

Welcome, my old friend,
Welcome to a foreign fireside,
While the sullen gales of autumn
Shake the windows.

The ungrateful world
Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee,
Since, beneath the skies of Denmark,
First I met thee.

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