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less fair,

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'Tis self that turns to pain and poisonous hate

The calm clear life of love the angels lead.

Shall sunder us who once have O, that 'twere possible this self to

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burn

In the pure flames of joy contemplative!

THE PRAYER TO MNEMOSYNE.

LADY, when first the message came

to me

Of thy great hope and all thy future bliss,

I had no envy of that happiness Which sets a limit to our joy in thee: But uttering orisons to gods who see Our mortal strife, and bidding them

to bless

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LITTLE KINDNESSES.

The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter

Have their own season. 'Tis a little thing

To give a cup of water; yet its draught

Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips,

May give a shock of pleasure to the frame

More exquisite than when nectarian juice

Renews the life of joy in happiest hours.

It is a little thing to speak a phrase Of common comfort, which by daily

use

Has almost lost its sense; yet in the

ear

Of him who thought to die unmourned, 'twill fall

Like choicest music, fill the glazing eye

With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand

To know the bonds of fellowship again,

And shed on the departing soul, a

sense

More precious than the benison of friends

About the honored death-bed of the

rich

To him who else were lonely, that another

Of the great family is near, and feels.

ON THE RECEPTION OF WORDSWORTH AT OXFORD.

OH!

never did a mighty truth prevail

With such felicities of place and time

As in those shouts sent forth with joy sublime

Fram the full heart of England's youth, to hail

Her once neglected bard within the pale

Of Learning's fairest citadel! That voice,

In which the future thunders, bids rejoice

Some who through wintry fortunes did not fail

To bless with love as deep as life, the name Thus welcomed;·

who in happy

silence share The triumph; while their fondest musings claim

Unhoped-for echoes in the joyous air,

That to their long-loved poet's spirit

bear.

A nation's promise of undying fame.

ROBERT TANNAHILL.

the midgeS DANCE ABOON THE | How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft

BURN.

THE midges dance aboon the burn; The dews begin to fa';

The pairtricks down the rushy holm Set up their e'ening ca'.

Now loud and clear the blackbird's

sang

Rings through the briery shaw, While flitting gay, the swallows play Around the castle wa'.

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky
The mavis mends her lay;
The red-breast pours his sweetest
strains,

To charm the ling'ring day;
While weary yeldrins seem to wail
Their little nestlings torn,
The merry wren, frae den to den,

Gaes jinking through the thorn.

The roses fauld their silken leaves,
The foxglove shuts its bell;
The honeysuckle and the birk

Spread fragrance through the dell.
Let others crowd the giddy court
Of mirth and revelry,

The simple joys that Nature yields Are dearer far to me.

THE FLOWER O DUMBLANE.

fauldin' blossom,

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THE sun has gane down o'er the Though mine were the station o'

lofty Benlomond,

And left the red clouds to preside

o'er the scene,

While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin',

To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

loftiest grandeur,

Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain,

And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor,

If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

ON THE HEADLAND.

I SIT on the lonely headland,
Where the sea-gulls come and go:
The sky is gray above me,

And the sea is gray below.
There is no fisherman's pinnace
Homeward or outward bound;
I see no living creature

In the world's deserted round.

I pine for something human,

Man, woman, young or old,— Something to meet and welcome, Something to clasp and hold.

I have a mouth for kisses,

But there's no one to give and
take;

I have a heart in my bosom
Beating for nobody's sake.

O warmth of love that is wasted!
Is there none to stretch a hand?
No other heart that hungers
In all the living land?

I could fondle the fisherman's baby,
And rock it into rest;

I could take the sunburnt sailor,
Like a brother, to my breast,
I could clasp the hand of any
Outcast of land or sea,
If the guilty palm but answered
The tenderness in me!

The sea might rise and drown me;
Cliffs fall and crush my head,—
Were there one to love me, living,
Or weep to see me dead!

THE FATHER.

THE fateful hour, when death stood by

And stretched his threatening hand in vain.

Is over now, and life's first cry Speaks feeble triumph through its pain.

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