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With charwomen such early hours agree,
And sweeps that earn betimes their bit

and sup;
But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be
All up,-all up!

So here I lie, my morning calls deferring,
Till something nearer to the stroke of

noon;

SONG.

O LADY, leave thy silken thread
And flowery tapestry.
There's living roses on the bush,

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And blossoms on the tree.
Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand
Some random bud will meet;

Thou canst not tread but thou wilt find
The daisy at thy feet.

T is like the birthday of the world,
When earth was born in bloom;
The light is made of many dyes,
The air is all perfume;
There's crimson buds, and white and
blue-

The very rainbow showers

Have turned to blossoms where they fell,
And sown the earth with flowers.

There's fairy tulips in the east,

The garden of the sun;

The very streams reflect the hues,
And blossom as they run;
While morn opes like a crimson rose,
Still wet with pearly showers:
Then, lady, leave the silken thread

Thou twinest into flowers.

RUTH.

SHE stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush
Deeply ripened;-such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell, —
Which were blackest none could tell;
But long lashes veiled a light
That had else been all too bright.

;

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim;-
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.

Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean;

A man that's fond precociously of stirring | Lay thy sheaf adown and come,

Must be a spoon.

Share my harvest and my home.

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bands;

For every fire that fronts the sun,
And every spark that walks alone
Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.

God of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return!
Her crumbling altars must decay,
Her incense fires shall cease to burn!
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
But still her grand and lovely scenes
For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.

W. A. MUHLENBERG.

[U. s. A.]

I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.

Then the white sails are dashed like foam, I WOULD not live alway: I ask not to

Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,
Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.

God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,
Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;
But more majestic far they stand,
When, side by side, their ranks they form,
To wave on high their plumes of green,
And fight their battles with the storm.

God of the light and viewless air!
Where summer breezes sweetly flow,
Or, gathering in their angry might,
The fierce and wintry tempests blow;
All- from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower,
To the wild whirlwind's midnight ery -
Breathe forth the language of thy power.

God of the fair and open sky!
How gloriously above us springs
The tented doine, of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings.
Each brilliant star, that sparkles through;
Each gilded cloud, that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee.

God of the rolling orbs above!
Thy name is written clearly bright
In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light.

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LADY DUFFERIN.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

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There, too, is the pillow where Christ | The place is little changed, Mary;

bowed his head;

O, soft be my slumbers on that holy bed! And then the glad morn soon to follow that night,

When the sunrise of glory shall burst on my sight,

And the full matin-song, as the sleepers

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The day 's as bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again.
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your warm breath on my cheek,
And I still keep listening for the words
You nevermore may speak.

Tis but a step down yonder lane,
The village church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary;
I see the spire from here.
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest,
Where I've laid you, darling, down to
sleep,

With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,
For the poor make no new friends;
But, O, they love the better still
The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessing and my pride;
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

I'm bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary kind and true,

But I'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I'm going to.
They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there;
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times less fair.

LADY DUFFERIN.

[1807-1867.]

THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I'm sitting on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side
On a bright May morning long ago,
When first you were my bride.

The corn was springing fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high,
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH

PRAED.

[1801 - 1839.]

THE BELLE OF THE BALL.

YEARS, years ago, ere yet my dreams
Had been of being wise and witty;
Ere I had done with writing themes,
Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty,-
Years, years ago, while all my joys

Were in my fowling-piece and filly;
In short, while I was yet a boy,
I fell in love with Laura Lilly.

I saw her at a county ball;

There, when the sound of flute and fiddle

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She sketched; the vale, the wood, the beach,

Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading: She botanized; I envied each

Young blossom in her boudoir fading: She warbled Handel; it was grand, She made the Catalina jealous: She touched the organ; I could stand For hours and hours and blow the bellows.

She kept an album, too, at home, Well filled with all an album's glories,

Paintings of butterflies and Rome, Patterns for trimming, Persian stories, Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,

Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter, And autographs of Prince Leboo, And recipes for elder water.

And she was flattered, worshipped, bored; Her steps were watched, her dress was noted;

Her poodle dog-was quite adored;

Her sayings were extremely quoted. She laughed, and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolished; She frowned, and every look was sad, As if the opera were demolished.

She smiled on many just for fun,

I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first, the only one

Her heart had thought of for a minute: I knew it, for she told me so,

In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand, and O,

How sweetly all her notes were folded!

Our love was like most other loves, -
A little glow, a little shiver;
A rosebud and a pair of gloves,

And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir,

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair,

The usual vows, and then we parted.

We parted, months and years rolled by;
We met again four summers after.
Our parting was all sob and sigh,
Our meeting was all mirth and laughter;
For in my heart's most secret cell

There had been many other lodgers, And she was not the ball-room belle, But only Mrs. Something-Rogers.

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