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The Fairy Child.

Ah! here is the garden! Here the limes,
Still in their sunset green and gold,
And the level lawn, with the pattern in't
Where the grass has been newly roll'd.
And here come the rabbits, lumping along,-
No! That's never the same white doe
With the pinky lops and the munching mouth;
Yet 'tis like her as snow to snow.
And here's Nep in his old heraldic style,
Erect, chain tightening all he can ;
With Topsy, wagging that inch of tail,-
What, you know me again, old man ?
The pond, where the lilies float and bloom!
The gold fish in it, just the same,
Too fat to stir in the cool,-yes, one

Shoots and gleams, and goes out like flame!
And yonder's the tree with the giant's face,
Nose and chin against the blue;
And the wide elm branches meeting, bear
Our famous swing between the two!
No change! Nay, it only seems last night
That I return'd your fond "Good-byes,"
As I heard the rain drip from the eaves,
And felt its moisture in my eyes.

Only last night that you throng'd the porch,
While I choked the words I couldn't say,
And poor little Jim's white face peep'd out,
Dimly seen while I stole away.

Poor little Jim! In this happy hour

His wee, white face our hearts recal,
And I miss a hand and a voice, and see
The little crutch against the wall.
So all life's sunshine is fleck'd with shade,
So all delight is touch'd with pain,
So tears of sorrow and tears of joy
Welcome the wanderer home again!

28.-THE FAIRY CHILD.

DR. ANSTER.

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[John Anster, LL.D., M.R.I.A., was born at Cork about the year 1793, and educated at Trinity College, Dublin. He is well known as the translator of "Faust," and has contributed largely to Blackwood's and other leading magazines. Still living.]

THE summer sun was sinking

With a mild light calm and mellow,

It shone on my little boy's bonny cheeks,
And his loose locks of yellow;

The robin was singing sweetly,

And his song was sad and tender;

And my little boy's eyes, while he heard the song,
Smiled with a sweet soft splendour.

My little boy lay on my bosom,

While his soul the song was quaffing,
The joy of his soul had tinged his cheek,
And his heart and his eye were laughing.
I sat alone in my cottage,

The midnight needle plying;

I feared for my child, for the rush's light
In the socket now was dying!

There came a hand to my lonely latch,
Like the wind at midnight moaning:
I knelt to pray, but rose again,

For I heard my little boy groaning;
I crossed my brow, and I crossed my breast,
But that night my child departed—
They left a weakling in his stead,
And I am broken-hearted!

Oh! it cannot be my own sweet boy,
For his eyes are dim and hollow,

My little boy is gone is gone,

And his mother soon will follow!
The dirge for the dead will be sung for me,
And the mass be chanted meetly,
And I shall sleep with my little boy,

In the moonlight churchyard sweetly.

29.-ODE TO THE ALMIGHTY.

G. R. DERZHAVIN.

[Gabriel Romanovitch Derzhavin, the greatest lyric poet of Russia, was born at Kasan in 1743, and died in 1816. The ode has been translated into several Eastern and European languages.]

All

O THOU ETERNAL ONE! whose presence bright
space doth occupy-all motion guide,
Unchanged through Time's all-devastating flight,
Thou only God! There is no god beside.

Being above all beings! Mighty One!

Whom none can comprehend and none explore,
Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone,
Embracing all-supporting-ruling o'er-
Being whom we call God, and know no more.

In its sublime research, philosophy

May measure out the ocean deep-may count

Ode to the Almighty

The sands or the sun's rays; but God! for Thee
There is no weight nor measure; none can mount
Up to Thy mysteries. Reason's brightest spark,

Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark;

And thought is lost ere thought can mount so high,
E'en like past moments in eternity.

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call

First chaos, then existence. Lord! on Thee Eternity had its foundation; all

Spring forth from Thee; of light, joy, harmony, Sole origin-all life, all beauty Thine.

Thy word created all, and doth create;

Thy splendour fills all space with rays divine;
Thou art, and wert, and shalt be glorious! great
Life-giving, life-sustaining potentate.

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround,
Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath!
Thou the beginning with the end hast bound,
And beautifully mingled life and death!
As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blaze,

So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee!
And as the spangles, in the sunny rays,

Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry

Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise.

A million torches, lighted by Thy hand,

Wander unwearied through the blue abyss;
They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command,
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss.
What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light?
A glorious company of golden streams?
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright?

Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams?
But Thou to those art as the noon to night!

Yes! as a drop of water in the sea,

All this magnificence in Thee is lost;

What are a thousand worlds compared to Thee?
And what am I, when heaven's unnumber'd host,
Though multiplied by myriads and array'd
In all the glory of sublimest thought,

Is but an atom in the balance weigh'd
Against Thy greatness-is a cypher brought
Against infinity? What am I then ?-Nought.

Thou art; directing, guiding all, Thou art!
Direct my understanding then to Thee;

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Control my spirit-guide my wandering heart;
Though but an atom 'midst immensity,
Still I am something fashion'd by Thy hand.

I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth,
On the last verge of mortal being stand,

Close to the realm where angels have their birth,
Just on the boundary of the spirit land!

The chain of being is complete in me;
In me is matter's last gradation lost,
And the next step is Spirit-Deity!

I can command the lightning, and am dust!
A monarch and a slave; a worm, a god :

Whence came I here, and how? so marvellously
Constructed and conceived!-unknown? This clod
Lives surely through some higher energy:
From out itself alone it could not be.

Creator? yes; Thy wisdom and Thy word
Created me. Thou source of life and good!
Thou Spirit of my spirit and my Lord!

Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude,
Fill'd me with an immortal soul, to spring
Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear
The garments of eternal day, and wing

Its heavenly flight beyond the little sphere,
Even to its source, to Thee, its author, Thee.

O thought ineffable! O vision blest.

(Though worthless our conception all of Thee)
Yet shall Thy shadow'd image fill our breast,
And waft its homage to thy Deity.

God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar;
Thus seek Thy presence. Being wise and good!
'Midst Thy vast works, admire, obey, adore,
And when the tongue is eloquent no more,
The soul shall speak in tears its gratitude.

30.-HOW MAY WAS FIRST MADE.

THOMAS MILLER.

[Thomas Miller was originally a basket-maker at Gainsborough, where he was born in 1808. His literary attempts attracting the attention of Rogers and Moore, he was enabled to start as a publisher. Still living.]

As Spring upon a silver cloud,

Lay looking on the world below,
Watching the breezes as they bowed
The buds and blossoms to and fro,

How May was first made.

She saw the fields with hawthorns walled-
Said Spring "New buds I will create."
She to a Flower Spirit called,

Who on the month of May did wait,
And said "Fetch me a hawthorn spray,
And I will make the buds of May."

Said Spring, "The grass looks green and bright,
The hawthorn-hedges too are green,
I'll sprinkle them with flowers of light,
Such stars as earth hath never seen.
And all through England's velvet vales,
Her steep hill-sides, and haunted streams,
Where uplands dip into the dales,

Where'er the hawthorn stands and dreams,
And thick-leaved trees make dark the day,
I'll light the land with buds of May.

"Like pearly dew-drops, white and round, The shut-up bloom shall first appear, And in it be such fragrance found

As breeze before did never bear,
Such odours as in Eden dwelt

When angels hovered round its bowers,
And long-haired Eve at morning knelt
In innocence amid the flowers:
Such perfumes I'll cast every way,
And scent the land throughout with May.

"And oft shall groups of children come,
Threading their way through shady places,
From many a peaceful English home,
The sunshine falling on their faces,
Starting with merry shouts the thrush,

As through green lanes they wander singing,
To gather the white hawthorn bush:

While homeward in the evening, With smiling faces they shall say "There's nothing half so sweet as May.'

"And many a poet, yet unborn,

Shall link its name to some sweet lay;

While lovers oft at early morn,

Shall gather blossoms of the May;
And eyes bright as the silver dews

Which on the rounded May-buds sleep,
Shall round it looks of love diffuse;
And beauty's blushes it shall keep,
To warm up all the white away,
Of buds that form the bloom of May."

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