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A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen,
Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green ;
For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light,
And there's a crystal clearness all about ;
The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out;
A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze ;
The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees ;
And when you listen, you may hear a coil
Of bubbling springs about the grassy soil ;
And all the scene, in short-sky, earth, and sea-
Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out


'Tis nature, full of spirits, wak’d and springing :
The birds to the delicious time are singing,
Darting with freaks and snatches up and down,
Where the light woods go seaward from the town ;
While happy faces, striking through the green
Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen ;
And the far ships, lifting their sails of white
Like joyful hands, come up with scattery light,
Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day,
And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the



FROM MADOR OF THE MOOR. The rainbow's lovely in the eastern cloud, The rose is beauteous in the beaded thorn,

Sweet is the evening song from purple shroud,
And sweet the orient blushes of the morn;
Sweeter than all the beauties that adorn
The female form in youth and maiden bloom.
0! why should passion ever man suborn
To work the sweetest flower of nature's doom,
And cast o'er all her joys a veil of cheerless gloom !

0! fragile flower ! that blossoms but to fade !
One slip recovery or recall defies;
Thou walk'st the dizzy verge with steps unstaid,
Fair as the habitants of yonder skies,
Like them thou fallest, never more to rise.
O! fragile flower, for thee my heart's in pain !
Haply a world is hid from mortal eyes,
Where thou may’st smile in purity again,
And shine in virgin-bloom that ever shall remain.



Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village green,
With magic tints to harmonize the scene;
Still'd is the hum that through the hamlet broke,
When round the ruins of their ancient oak
The peasants flock'd to hear the minstrel play,
And games and carols closed the busy day.
Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more
With treasured tales, and legendary lore.
All, all are fled ; nor mirth nor music flows
To chase the dreams of innocent repose.

All, all are fled ; yet still I linger here !
What secret charms this silent spot endear?
Mark yon old mansion frowning through the

Whose hollow turret wooes the whistling breeze.
That casement, arch'd with ivy's brownest shade,
First to these eyes the light of heaven convey’d.
The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown

Once the calm scene of many a simple sport ;
When nature pleas’d, for life itself was new,
And the heart promis'd what the fancy drew.

See, through the fractur'd pediment reveal'd,
Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptur'd shield,
The martin's old, hereditary nest,
Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest !


Mine be a cot beside the hill,
A bee-hive's hum shall sooth my ear ;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivy'd porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church, among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.



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Thus perfected in all the arts of life,
That simple Pelicans require, save one,
Which mother-bird did never teach her daughter,
The imitable art to build a nest;
Love, for his own delightful school reserving
That Mystery which novice never fail'd
To learn infallibly when taught by him ;
Hence that small masterpiece of Nature's art,
Still unimpair’d, still unimproved, remains
The same in site, material, shape, and texture.
While every kind a different structure frames,
All build alike of each peculiar kind :
The nightingale that dwelt in Adam's bower,
And pour’d her stream of music through his

The soaring lark, that led the eye of Eve
Into the clouds, her thoughts into the Heaven
Of Heavens, where lark nor eye can penetrate ;
The dove that perch'd upon the Tree of Life,


And made her bed among its thickest leaves ;
All the wing'd inhabitants of Paradise,
Whose songs once mingled with the songs of

Wove their first nests as curiously and well
As the wood-minstrels in our evil day,
After the labours of six thousand years,
In which their ancestors have failed to add,
To alter, or diminish any thing
In that, of which Love only knows the secret,
And teaches every mother for herself,
Without the power to impart it to her offspring.


HIGHER, higher will we climb,

Up the mount of glory,
That our names may live through time

In our country's story ;
Happy, when her welfare calls,
He who conquers, he who falls.

Deeper, deeper let us toil

In the mines of knowledge ;
Nature's wealth, and learning's spoil,

Win from school and college ;
Delve we there for richer gems
Than the stars of diadems.

Onward, onward may we press

Through the path of duty ;
Virtue is true happiness,

Excellence true beauty.

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