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But, 0, of all delightful sounds,

Of evening or of morn,
The sweetest is the voice of love

That welcomes his return.


WORKS. – T. Moore.

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine,
My temple, Lord! that arch of thine;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.

My choir shall be the moonlit waves,
When murmuring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,
Even more than music, breathes of Thee.

I'll seek by day some glade unknown,
All light and silence, like thy throne!
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.

Thy heaven, on which 't is bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wondrous name.

I'll read thy anger in the rock
That clouds a while the day-beam's track,
Thy mercy in the azure hue
Of sunny brightness breaking through!

There 's nothing bright, above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow
But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of the Deity.

There's nothing dark, below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy love,
And meekly wait that moment when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again.

CHARADE. — By Praed.

Come from my First, ay, come!
For the battle-hour is nigh:
And the screaming trump and thundering drum
Are calling thee to die!
Fight, as thy father fought!
Fall, as thy father fell !
Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought; -
So — onward — and farewell.

Toll ye my Second, toll!
Fling wide the flambeau's light,
And sing the hymn for a parted soul
Beneath the silent night.
With the wreath upon his head,
And the cross upon his breast,
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed ; -
So — take him to his rest!

Call ye my Whole, – ay, — call
The lord of lute and lay!
And let him greet the sable pall
With a noble song to-day!

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Ay, call him by his name !
Nor fitter hand may crave
To light the flame of a soldier's fame
On the turf of a soldier's grave !

ANSWER. — Campbell.

WINTER. – Burns.

The wintry west extends his blast,

And hail and rain do blow;
Or the stormy north sends driving forth

The blinding sleet and snow;
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,

And roars from bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,

And pass the heartless day.

The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,

The joyless winter day,
Let others fear, — to me more dear

Than all the pride of May;
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,

My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine.

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme

These woes of mine fulfil;
Here, firm, I rest, — they must be best,

Because they are Thy will !
Then all I want, (0, do Thou grant

This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,

Assist me to resign.


It was a brave attempt! adventurous he
Who in the first ship broke the unknown sea,
And, leaving his dear native shores behind,
Trusted his life to the licentious wind.
I see the surging brine; the tempest raves;
He on the pine-plank rides across the waves,
Exulting on the edge of thousand gaping graves;
He steers the wingéd boat, and shifts the sails,
Conquers the flood, and manages the gales.

Such is the soul that leaves this mortal land,
Fearless, when the great Master gives command.
Death is the storm ; she smiles to hear it roar,
And bids the tempest wast her from the shore;
Then with a skilful helm she sweeps the seas,
And manages the raging storm with ease;
(Her faith can govern death ;) she spreads her wings
Wide to the wind, and as she sails she sings,
And loses by degrees the sight of mortal things.
As the shores lessen, so her joys arise,
The waves roll gentler, and the tempest dies ;
Now vast eternity fills all her sight,
She floats on the broad deep with infinite delight,
The seas forever calm, the skies forever bright.



And was thy hoine, pale, withered thing,

Beneath the rich blue southern sky?
Wert thou a nursling of the spring,

The winds and suns of glorious Italy?



Those suns, in golden light, e'en now

Look o'er the poet's lovely grave; Those winds are breathing soft, but thou,

Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave.

The flowers o'er Posilippo's* brow

May cluster in their purple bloom, But on the o'ershadowing ilex-bough

Thy breezy place is void, by Virgil's tomb.

Thy place is void, - 0, none on earth,

This crowded earth, may so remain, Save that which souls of loftiest birth Leave when they part, their brighter home to


Another leaf ere now hath sprung

On the green stem which once was thine; When shall another strain be sung

Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine ?

THE MAY QUEEN. — Tennyson.

You must wake and call me early, call me early,

mother dear, To-morrow 'll be the happiest time of all the blithe

New Year;

* A mountain skirting the shores of the Bay of Naples, on one of the most beautiful heights of which stands the tomb of Virgil.

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