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For the same sound is in my ears
Which in those days I heard.

Thus fares it still in our decay;

And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what Age takes away

Than what it leaves behind.

The blackbird amid leafy trees,

The lark above the hill,
Let loose their carols when they please,

Are quiet when they will.

With Nature never do they wage

A foolish strife: they see
A happy youth, and their old age

Is beautiful and free.

But we are pressed by heavy laws;

And often, glad no more,
We wear a face of joy, because

We have been glad of yore.

If there be one who need bemoan
His kindred laid in earth,

The household hearts that were his own-
It is the man of mirth.

My days, my friend, are almost gone,

My life has been approved, And many love me; but by none

Am I enough beloved."—

"Now both himself and me he wrongs,

The man who thus complains! I live and sing my idle songs

Upon these happy plains.

And, Matthew, for thy children dead

I'll be a son to thee !"—
At this he grasped my hand, and said,

"Alas! that cannot be." —

We rose up from the fountain-side,
And down the smooth descent

Of the green sheep-track did we glide,
And through the wood we went;

And ere we came to Leonard's Rock,

He sang those witty rhymes
About the crazy old church-clock,

And the bewildered chimes.

WOBDSWORTH.

FROM INDIA.

"Oh, come you from the Indies, and, soldier, can you tell Aught of the gallant 90th, and who are safe and well? O soldier, say my son is safe, (for nothing else I care,) And you shall have a mother's thanks—shall have a widow's prayer!"

"Oh, I've come from the Indies, I've just come from the

war, And well I know the 90th, and gallant lads they are: From colonel down to rank and file, I know my comrades

well, And news I've brought for you, mother, your Robert bade

me tell."

"And do you know my Robert now! oh, tell me, tell me

true— O soldier, tell me word for word all that he said to you! His very words—my own boy's words—O tell me every

one! You little know how dear to his old mother is my son!"

"Through Havelock's fights and marches the 90th were

there; In all the gallant 90th did, your Robert did his share: Twice he went into Lucknow, untouched by steel or ball; And you may bless your God, old dame, that brought him

safe through all."

"Oh, thanks unto the living God, that heard his mother's

prayer, The widow's cry that rose on high her only son to spare! O bless'd be God, that turned from him the sword and shot

away!— And what to his old mother did my darling bid you say V

"Mother, he saved his colonel's life, and bravely it was

done; In the despatch they told it all, and named and praised your

son: A medal and a pension's his; good luck to him, I say; And he has not a comrade but will wish him well to-day."

"Now, soldier, blessings on your tongue!—O husband, that

you knew How well our boy pays me this day for all that I've gone

through; All I have done and borne for him the long years since

you're dead! But, soldier, tell me how he looked, and all my Robert

said."

"He's bronzed, and tanned, and bearded, and you'd hardly

know him, dame: We've made your boy into a man, but still his heart's the

same; For often, dame, his talk's of you, and always to one tune ;— But there, his ship is nearly home, and he'll be with you

soon."

"Oh! is he really coming home, and shall I really see

My boy again, my own boy, home? and when, when will it

be? Did you say soon?"—"Well, he is home; keep cool, old

dame; he's here."— "O Robert! my own blessed boy!"—" 0 mother!—mother

dear!"

W. Bkkkett.

EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL.

Hush! 'tis a holy hour !—the quiet room
Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds

A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom
And the sweet stillness, down on bright young heads,

With all their clustering locks untouched by care,

And bowed—as flowers are bowed with night—in prayer.

Gaze on!—'tis lovely !—childhood's lip and cheek
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought!

Gaze! yet what seest thou in those fair and meek
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought ]

Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,—

What death must fashion for eternity!

0 joyous creatures! that will sink to rest
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,

As birds with slumber's honey-dew oppressed,
'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun,—

Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies

Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.

Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs

Of hope make melody where'er ye tread,
And o'er your sleep bright shadows from the wings

Of spirits visiting but youth be spread,
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman's tenderness—how soon her woe!

Her lot is on you !—silent tears to weep;

A patient smile to wear through suffering's hour; And sumless riches, from affection's deep,

To pour on broken reedj a wasted shower;
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship;—therefore pray!

Her lot is on you!—to be found untired,
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,

With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,

And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain; Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, And, oh! to love through all things !—therefore pray!

And take the thought of this calm vesper-time, With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,

On through the dark days fading from their prime, As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight!

Earth will forsake—oh! happy to have given

The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven!

B. Barton.

WE'LL BIDE TOGETHER.

Great tears rolled down his rugged cheek,

Who ne'er for years had wept,
Till pillowed on his aged breast

The little outcast slept;
And while he viewed the early marks

Of sorrow and neglect,
Some pitying angel bade him then

That orphan child protect.
"Thou canst not brave," he softly said, *

"Poor bird, the bitter weather, Alone in this bleak world—ah, no!

Please God, we'll bide together."

A smile was on the old man's face,

He wore a look of pride,
As Gerty, when the spring returned,

Came tripping by his side.
Her trembling hand in his he held:

"Ah! Heaven was kind to me,"
He said, "who sent this orphan child,

My joy in age to be.
'Tis sweet to rove this old green lane,

And feel this balmy weather,
And know that I am not alone—

Thank Heaven! we bide together."

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