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THE SABBATH.

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,

The flowers she most did love ;
She knew she should find them all again

In the fields of light above.

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,

The Reaper came that day ; 'Twas an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away.

LONGFELLOW.

O

THE SABBATH.

IF earth hath aught that speaks to us of Heaven,

'Tis when, within some lone and leafy dell,

Solemn and slow, we list the Sabbath bell On music's wings through the clear ether driven :

Doth it not say aloud, “Oh man, 'twere well Hither to come, nor walk in sins unshriven !

Haste to this temple, tidings ye shall hear, Ye who are sorrowful, and sick in soul,

Your griefs to soothe, your downcastness to cheer, To bind affliction's wounds, and make you whole ; Come here—come here—though like the Tyrian dye Guilt hath polluted you, yet, white as snow,

From the eternal streams that hither flow, Hence ye shall pass to meet your Maker's eye.”

MOIR.

TIE 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 green sward 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 childhood's tale is told;
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

The cottage homes of England !
By thousands on her plains
They are smiling o'er the silv'ry brook,
And round the hamlet-fanes ;
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves ;
And fearless there the lowly sleep,

the bird beneath their eaves.

THE WAR-HORSE.

The free fair homes of England !
Long, long in hut and hall
May hearts of native proof be rear'd
To guard each hallow'd wall.
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flow'ry sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God.

HEMANS.

THE WAR-HORSE.

The fiery courser, when he hears from far
The sprightly trumpets and the shouts of war,
Pricks up his ears, and trembling with delight,
Shifts place, and paws, and hopes the promised fight
On his right shoulder his thick mane reclined,
Ruffles at speed, and dances in the wind.
Eager he stands,—then, starting with a bound,
He turns the turf, and shakes the solid ground;
Fire from his eyes, clouds from his nostrils flow,
He bears his rider headlong on the foe.

DRYDEN'S VIRGIL. THE LION.

FIERCEST of all, the lordly lion stalks,
Grimly majestic in bis lonely walks ;
When round he glares, all living creatures fly;
He clears the desert with his rolling eye.
Say, mortal, does he rouse at thy command,
And roar to thee, and live upon thy hand ?
Dost thou, for him, in forests bend thy bow,
And to bis gloomy den the morsel throw,
Where, bent on death, lie hid his tawny brood,
And, couch'd in dreadful ambush, pant for blood;
Or, stretch'd on broken limbs, consume the day,
In darkness wrapp'd, and slumber o'er their prey ?
By the pale moon they take their destined round,
And lash their sides, and furious tear the ground ;
Now shrieks and dying groans the desert fill ;
They rage, they rend ; their ravenous jaws distil
With crimson foam ; and when the banquet's o'er,
They stride away, and print their steps with gore ;
In flight alone the shepherd puts his trust,
And shudders at the talon in the dust.

YOUNG THE WINTER NIGHT.

How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh,
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear,
Were discord to the speaking quietude
That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault,
Studded with stars unutterably bright,
Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a canopy which love had spread
To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills,
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow-
Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend,
So stainless, that their white and glittering spires
Tinge not the moon's pure beam-yon castled steen,
Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower
So idly, that wrapt fancy deemeth it
A metaphor of peace ;-all form a scene
Where musing solitude might love to lift
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness ;
Where silence undisturb’d might watch alone,
So cold, so bright, so still.

SHELLEY.

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