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Its holy flame for ever burneth,
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth:

For oft on earth a troubled ynest,
At times deceived, at times opprest,
It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in heaven its perfect rest:

It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest time of love is there.
Oh! when a mother meets on high,

The babe she has lost in infancy,
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,
The day of woe, the watchful night,
For all her sorrows, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight?




I BADE the Day-break bring to me
Its own sweet song of ecstasy :
An anwer came from leafy trees,
And waking birds, and wandering bees,
And wavelets on the water's brim-
The matin hymn-the matin hymn!

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I ask'd the Noon for music then:
It echoed forth the hum of men;
The sounds of labour on the wind,
The loud-voiced eloquence of mind ;
The heart—the soul's sublime pulsations-
The song—the shout-the shock of nations.

I hasten'd from the restless throng,
To soothe me with the Evening song:
The dark’ning heaven was vocal still,
I heard the music of the rill-
The home-bound bee—the vesper bell-
The cicada-and philomel.

Thou Omnipresent Harmony !
Shades, streams, and stars are full of thee;
On every wing-in every sound,
Thine all-pervading power is found;
Some chord to touch-some tale to tell
Deep deep within the Spirit's cell.


THE CHILD AND FLOWERS. Hast thou been in the woods with the honey-bee ? Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free ? With the hare through the copses and dingles wild ? With the butterfly over the heath, fair child ? Yes ; the light form of thy bounding feet Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat; Yet hast thou ranged the green forest dells, And brought back a treasure of buds and bells. Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique song, Breathed o'er the names of that flowery throng ; The woodbine, the primrose, the violets dim, The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim: These are old words, that have made each grove A dreary haunt for romance and love ; Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie, A place for the gushings of poesy. Thou know'st not the light wherewith fairy lore Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o'er; Enough for thee are the dews that sleep Like hidden gems in the flower-urns deep; Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell 'Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell; And the scent by the blossoming sweetbriers shed, And the beauty that bows the wood-hyacinth's head. O, happy child in thy fawn-like glee ! What is remembrance or thought to thee?

Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring,
O'er thy green pathway their colours fling;
Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon;
What if to droop and to perish soon ?
Nature hath mines of such wealth; and thou
Never wilt prize its delights as now!

For a day is coming to quell the tone
That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one!
And to dim thy brow with a touch of care,
Under the gloss of its clustering hair;
And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes
Into the stillness of autumn skies;
And to teach thee that grief hath her needful part,
'Midst the hidden things of each human heart!

Yet shall we mourn, gentle child! for this ?
Life hath enough of yet holier bliss !
Such be thy portion! the bliss to look,
With a reverent spirit, through Nature's book;
By fount, by forest, by river's line,
To track the paths of a love divine;
To read its deep meanings——to see and hear
God in earth's garden-and not to fear.



I NEVER was a favourite,

My mother never smiled
On me, with half the tenderness

That bless'd her fairer child :
I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek,

While fondled on her knee;
I've turn'd away to hide my tears,

There was no kiss for me!

And yet I strove to please, with all

My little store of sense ;
I strove to please, and infancy

Can rarely give offence;
But when my artless efforts met

A cold, ungentle check,
I did not dare to throw myself

In tears upon her neck.

How blessed are the beautiful!

Love watches o'er their birth; Oh, beauty! in my nursery

I learn'd to know thy worth,-
For even there, I often felt

Forsaken and forlorn;
And wish'd for others wish'd it too

I never had been born!

I'm sure I was affectionate,

But in my sister's face
There was a look of love, that claim'd

A smile or an embrace;
But when I raised my lip, to meet

The pressure children prize,
None knew the feelings of my heart-

They spoke not in my eyes.
But, oh! that heart too keenly felt

The anguish of neglect;
I saw my sister's lovely form

With gems and roses deck'd;
I did not covet them ; but oft,

When wantonly reproved,
I envied her the privilege

Of being so beloved.
But soon a time of triumph came

A time of sorrow too
For sickness o'er my sister's form

Her venom'd mantle threw

The features once so beautiful,

Now wore the hue of death ;
And former friends shrank fearfully

From her infectious breath.
'Twas then unwearied, day and night,

I watch'd beside her bed,
And fearlessly upon my breast

I pillow'd her poor head.
She lived—she loved me for my care!

My grief was at an end ;
I was a lonely being once,
But now I have a friend!


A POET'S FAVOURITE. Oh she is guileless as the birds

That sing beside the summer brooks; With music in her gentle words,

With magic in her winsome looks. With beauty by all eyes confess'd,

With grace beyond the reach of art, And, better still than all the rest,

With perfect singleness of heart: With kindness like a noiseless spring

That faileth ne'er in heat or cold ;
With fancy, like the wild dove's wing,

As innocent as it is bold.
With sympathies that have their birth

Where woman's best affections lie;
With hopes that hover o'er the earth,

But fix their resting-place on high. And if, with all that thus exalts

A soul by sweet thoughts sanctified, This dear one has her human faults, They ever “ lean to virtue's side."


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