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But lo! at last he comes with crowded sail !

Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend !
And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale!

In each he hears the welcome of a friend.
-'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand !

Soon is the anchor cast, the canvass furled ; Soon through the whitening surge he springs on land, And clasps the maid he singled from the world.

Rogers.

80.—THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. The stately homes of England !

How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land !
The deer across their greensward bound

Through shade and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them with the sound

Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry homes of England !

Around their hearths by night
What gladsome looks of household love

Meet in the ruddy light!
There woman's voice flows forth in song,

Or childish tale is told,
Or lips move tunefully along

Some glorious page of old.
The blessed homes of England !

How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours !

Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bells' chime

Floats through their woods at morn;
All other sounds, in that still time,

Of breeze and leaf are born.
The cottage homes of England !

By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,

And round the hamlet fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,

Each from its nook of leaves;
And fearless there the lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath their eaves.
The free, fair homes of England !

Long, long in hut and hall
May hearts of native proof be reared
· To guard each hallowed wall!
And green for ever be the groves,

And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!

Mrs. Hemans.

81 — ADDRESS TO A CHILD DURING A

BOISTEROUS WINTER'S EVENING.

What way does the Wind come? What way does he go?
He rides over the water, and over the snow,
Through wood, and through vale ; and o'er rocky height,
Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight;
He tosses about in every bare tree,
As, if you look up, you plainly may see:

But bor be wall come, and whither be goes
There's DETET E scholar in England knor
He will suddenly stop in a cong book
And ring a starp larsa; but you should loos
There's notkug to see but a coushion of snow
Round as a pion, and white than a
And softer than if it were Covered with st
Sometimes be TI hide in the care of a rock
Then whistle as shirt as the buzzard cock.
-Iet seek hin-and what shall you sand in his place?
Nothing but silence and empty space;
Sare in a corner, a heap of an leaves.
That be's lett, for a bed to beggars or thieves !
As soon as "tis daylight, to-morrow, with me
You shall go to the orchard, and then yod will see
That he has been there, and made a great rout.
And cracked the branches, and strem them about:
Hearen grant that he spare but that one upright twig
That looked up at the sky so proud and big,
Al last summer, as well you know,
Studded with apples, a beantitil show!
Hark! over the roof he makes a parse,
And grows us if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle
Drive them down, Eke a man in a battle:-
But let him rage round; he does us no harm,
We build up the fire, we're song and warm;
Untouched by his breath. see the candle sbines bright,
And burns with a clear and steady light;
Books have we to read.—but that half stifted knell,
Alas! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell.
Come, now we'll to bed! and when we are there
He may work his own will, and what shall we care?

He may knock at the door,—we'll not let him in ;
May drive at the windows, -- we'll laugh at his din:
Let him seek his own home, wherever it be;
Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me.

By a Female Friend of Wordsworth.

. 82.-THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. One morning (raw it was and wet

A foggy day in winter-time) A woman on the road I met,

Not old, though something past her prime: Majestic in her person, tall and straight;

And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait. The ancient spirit is not dead:

Old times, thought I, are breathing there ;
Proud was I that my country bred

Such strength, a dignity so fair ;
She begged an alms like one in poor estate:

I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.
When from these lofty thoughts I woke,

" What is it,” said I, “ that you bear, “ Beneath the covert of your cloak,

“ Protected from this cold damp air ? " She answered, soon as she the question heard,

“ A simple burden, Sir, a little singing bird.” And, thus continuing, she said,

“I had a son, who many a day “ Sailed on the seas, but he is dead;

" In Denmark he was cast away; " And I have travelled many miles to see

" If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. “ The bird and cage they both were his ;

“'Twas my son's bird: and neat and trim “He kept it; many royages

“ This singing-bird had gone with him: * When last he sail'd, he left the bird behind:

“From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind. “ He to a fellow-lodger's care

“Had left it, to be watched and fed, " And pipe its song in safety ,—there

“I found it when my son was dead: “ And now, God help me for my little wit! “ I bear it with me, Sir:—he took so much delight in it.”

Wordsworth.

83. – WE SCATTER SEEDS.
We scatter seeds with careless hand
And dream we ne'er shall see them more;

But for a thousand years

Their fruit appears,
In weeds that mar the land

Or healthful store.
The deeds we do—the words we say
Into still air they seem to fleet;

We count them ever past

But they shall last-
In the dread judgment, they

And we shall meet !

Keble.

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