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Let kindlier visitants attend my way,

Beneath the approaching Summer's fervid ray ;
Nor thankless glooms obtrude, nor cares annoy,
Whilst the sweet theme is universal joy.

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[THE "Remains" of Henry Kirke White, edited by Southey, has, from its first publication, been recognised as almost an English classic. The poet was born at Nottingham, and as a lad was placed with a stockingweaver, but showing an intense love for Latin and Greek, he was, chiefly through the generosity of Mr. Wilberforce, sent to St. John's College, Cambridge, where, however, his intense study proved too much for a naturally delicate constitution, and he died of decline at the early age of 21.]

T is not that my lot is low

IT

That makes this silent tear to flow;

It is not grief that bids me moan;

It is that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tired hedger hies him home;
Or by the woodland pool to rest,
When pale the star looks on its breast.

Yet when the silent evening sighs
With hallowed airs and symphonies,
My spirit takes another tone,

And sighs that it is all alone.

The Autumn leaf is sere and dead

It floats upon the water's bed;

I would not be a leaf, to die
Without recording Sorrow's sigh!

The woods and winds with sullen wail,
Tell all the same unvaried tale;

I've none to smile when I am free,

And when I sigh to sigh with me.

Yet in my dreams a form I view,
That thinks on me, and loves me too;
I start, and when the vision's flown,

I weep that I am all alone.

THE EARLY PRIMROSE.

MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!

Whose modest form, so delicately fine,

Was nursed in whirling storms

And cradled in the winds.

Thee, when young Spring first question'd Winter's sway And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,

Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity; in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,

Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows

Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear

Serene the ills of life.

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[BISHOP Heber's reputation as poet rests mainly on the authorship of some of our brightest and most spirit-stirring hymns; combining, as they do, both poetry and devotional expression, they will long retain their place in all English hymnals. For this reason, his best known and most universally adopted stanzas are selected for the present volume. They were written by him specially for and within a few hours previous to a collection for the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts.

His other chief poems consist of his University Prize Poem, "Palestine;" a "Translation of Pindar;" "Morte d'Arthur," a fragment; and several minor pieces. The arrangement of the subjects of his sacred verse would lead to the belief that he had projected a complete series for the Christian year, as later carried out by the Rev. John Keble. The career of the poet, however, terminated with the office and labours of missionary bishop, and his appointment to the see of Calcutta may be said to have precluded all further literary work. His useful and promising career was prematurely closed by death from apoplexy whilst bathing at Trichinopoly, in the forty-fourth year of his age.]

FROM Greenland's icy mountains,

From India's coral strand,
Where Afric's sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand;

From many an ancient river,
From many a palmy plain,

They call us to deliver

Their land from error's chain.

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What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle,
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile :
In vain with lavish kindness

The gifts of God are strewn,
The heathen in his blindness

Bows down to wood and stone.

Can we whose souls are lighted With Wisdom from on high, Can we to men benighted

The lamp of life deny? Salvation! oh, Salvation! The joyful sound proclaim, Till each remotest nation

Has learn'd Messiah's name.

Waft, waft, ye winds, His story,
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till like a sea of glory

It spreads from pole to pole!
Till o'er our ransom'd nature,
The Lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign.

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