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The merry cuckow, messenger of spring,
Therefore, O Love, unlesse she turne to thee
Fair is the rising morn, when o'er the sky
The orient sun expands his roscate ray, And lovely to the bard's enthusiast eye
Fades the meek radiance of departing day; But fairer is the smile of one we love,
Than all the scenes in nature's ample sway, And sweeter than the music of the grove,
The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight,
Edith! is mine; escaping to thy siglit From the hard durance of the empty throng.
Too swiftly then towards the silent night, Ye hours of happiness ! ye speed along; Whilst I, from all the world's cold cares apart, Pour out the feelings of my burthened heart.-SOUTHEY.
Where, far from cities, I may spend my days :
May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,
List to the mountain torrent’s distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,
I shall not want the world's delusive joys; But, with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,
Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more ; And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,
I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore, And lay me down to rest where the wild wave Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.