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The ocean plain, where Nelson bled,

Fair commerce plies with peaceful oar; Duteous o'er Britain's clime to shed

The gathered spoil of every shore:
To-day, across the Atlantic sea,
Shout-shout ye, that the slave is free.

And eloquence, in rushing streams,
Has flowed our halls and courts along,
Or kindled 'mid yet loftier dreams

The glowing bursts of glowing song:
Let both their noblest burden pour,
To tell that slavery is no more.

Bright science through each field of space Has urged her mist-dispelling car,

Coy nature's hidden reign to trace,

To weigh each wind, and count each star:

Yet stay, thou proud philosophy,

First stoop to bid mankind be free.

And freedom has been long our own,
With all her soft and generous train,

To gild the lustre of the throne,

And guard the labour of the plain : Ye heirs of ancient Runnymede!

Your slaves-O! could it be?-are freed.

Ah! for the tale the slave could speak,
Ah! for the shame of England's sway;
On Afric sands the maddened shriek,

'Neath Indian suns the burning day: Ye sounds of guilt-ye sights of goreAway! for slavery is no more.

'Mid the drear haunts of force and strife,

The ministers of peace shall stand, And pour the welling words of life

Around a parched and thirsty land; While, spread beneath the tamarind tree, Rise "happy homes and altars free."

Ye isles, that court the tropic rays,
Clustered on ocean's sapphire breast;
Ye feathery bowers, ye fairy bays,

In more than fable now-"the blest:"
Waft on each gale your choral strain,
Till every land has rent the chain.

O England, empire's home and head,
First in each art of peace and power,
Mighty the billow crest to tread,

Mighty to rule the battle hour;

But mightiest to relieve and save,
Rejoice, that thou hast freed the slave.

EARL OF CARLISLE.

THE SUNSHINE.

I LOVE the sunshine everywhere

In wood, and field, and glen;

I love it in the busy haunts

Of town-imprisoned men.

I love it, when it streameth in

The humble cottage door,

And casts the chequered casement shade
Upon the red-brick floor.

I love it, where the children lie
Deep in the clovery grass,

To watch among the twining roots,
The gold-green beetle pass.

I love it, on the breezy sea,

To glance on sail and oar,

While the great waves, like molten glass,
Come leaping to the shore.

I love it, on the mountain-tops,
Where sleeps the thawless snow;
And half a kingdom, bathed in light,
Lies stretching out below.

O yes, I love the sunshine!
Like kindness, or like mirth,
Upon a human countenance,
Is sunshine on the earth.

Upon the earth, upon the sea,
And through the crystal air,
Or piled-up clouds, the gracious sun
Is glorious everywhere.

MARY HOWITT.

COWSLIPS.

O! FRAGRANT dwellers of the lea,
When first the wild wood rings
With each sound of vernal minstrelsy,
When fresh the green grass springs!

What can the blessed spring restore
More gladd'ning than your charms?
Bringing the memory once more
Of lovely fields and farms!

Of thickets, breezes, birds, and flowers;
Of life's unfolding prime;

Of thoughts as cloudless as the hours;
Of souls without a crime.

O blessed, blessed do ye seem,

For even now, I turned,

With soul athirst for wood and stream, From streets that glared and burned.

From the hot town, where mortal care
His crowded fold doth pen;
Where stagnates the polluted air
In many a sultry den.

And are ye here? and are ye here?
Drinking the dew like wine,
'Midst living gales and waters clear,
And heaven's unstinted shine.

I care not that your little life

Will quickly have run through,

And the sward with summer children rife

Keep not a trace of you.

For again, again, on dewy plain,

I trust to see you rise,

When spring renews the wild wood strain,

And bluer gleam the skies.

Again, again, when many springs
Upon my grave shall shine,

Here shall you speak of vanished things

To living hearts of mine.

MARY HOWITT.

SONG TO SPRING.

SPRING! spring! beautiful spring!

Hitherward cometh like hope on the wing-
Pleasantly looketh on streamlet and flood,
Raiseth a chorus of joy in the wood;
Toucheth the bud, and it bursts into bloom;
Biddeth the beautiful rise from the tomb;
Blesseth the heart like a heavenly thing!
Spring! spring! beautiful spring!

Song sweetly saluteth the morn;
The robin awaketh and sits on the thorn;
Timidly warbles while yet in the east,
Twilight from duty has not been released;
Calleth the lark that ascendeth on high,
Greeting the sun in the depth of the sky;
Telleth the talented blackbird to sing-
Welcome! O welcome! beautiful spring!

SWAIN.

THE TOY OF THE GIANT'S CHILD.

FROM THE GERMAN OF CHAMISSO.

BURG NIEDECK is a mountain in Alsace, high and strong, Where once a noble castle stood-the giants held it long;

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