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Oh, ye who guard and grace my home,
While in far-distant lands we roam,
Enquiring thoughts are turned to you ;
Does a clear ether meet your eyes ?
Or have black vapours hid the skies
And mountains from your view ?

I ask in vain-and know far less
If sickness, sorrow, or distress,
Have spared my dwelling to this hour :
Sad blindness! but ordained to prove
Our faith in heav'n's unfailing love
And all-controlling pow'r.

TO A WATER-FOWL.

BRYANT.

Whither 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or maze of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink

On the chafed ocean side ?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, -
The desert and illimitable air,-

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere ;
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,

Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend

Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'st gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart, Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,

And shall not soon depart.

He, who from zone to zone Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

THE SPANISH CHAPEL.

MRS. HEMANS.

I made a mountain-brook my guide,

Through a wild Spanish glen,
And wandered, on its grassy side,

Far from the homes of men.

It lured me with a singing tone,

And many a sunny glance, To a green spot of beauty lone,

A haunt for old romance.

A dim and deeply-bosom'd grove

Of many an aged tree,
Such as the shadowy violets love,

The fawn and forest-bee.

The darkness of the chesnut bough

There on the waters lay,
The bright stream rev'rently below

Check'd its exulting play ;

And bore a music all subdued,

And led a silvery sheen,
On through the breathing solitude

Of that rich leafy scene.

For something viewlessly around

Of solemn influence dwelt, In the soft gloom, and whispery sound,

Not to be told but felt.

While sending forth a quiet gleam

Across the wood's repose,
And o'er the twilight of the stream,

A Jowly chapel rose.

A pathway to that still retreat

Through many a myrtle wound,

And there a sight-how strangely sweet!

My steps in wonder bound.

For on a brilliant bed of flowers,

E'en at the threshold made,
As if to sleep through sultry hours,

A young fair child was laid.

To sleep ?--oh! ne'er on childhood's eye,

Aud silken lashes press'd,
Did the warm living slumber lie,

With such a weight of rest !

Yet still a tender crimson glow

Its cheek's pure marble dyed'Twas but the light's faint streaming flow

Through roses heap'd beside.

I stoop'd—the smooth round arm was chill,

The soft lips' breath was filed,
And the bright ringlets hung so still-

The lovely child was dead !

" Alas!" I cried, “fair faded thing!

Thou hast wrung bitter tears, And thou hast left a woe to cling

Round yearning hearts for years

But then a voice came sweet and low

I turn'd, and near me sate,
A woman with a mourner's brow,

Pale, yet not desolate.

E

And in her still clear, matron face,

All solemnly serene,
A shadow'd image I could trace

Of the young slumberer's mien.

“Stranger ! thou pitiest me," she said,

With lips that faintly smild, “ As here I watch beside my dead,

My fair and precious child.

“But know the time-worn heart may be

By pangs in this world riven, Keener than theirs who yield, like me,

An angel thus to heaven !"

THE RECAL.

BARRY CORNWALL.

COME again ! come again !
Sunshine cometh after rain.
As a lamp fed newly burneth,
Pleasure, who doth fly, returneth,
Scattering every cloud of pain,
As the year, which dies in showers,
Riseth in a world of flowers.
Called by many a vernal strain,
Come thou, -for whom tears were falling,
And a thousand tongues are calling!
Come again, O come again !
Like the sunshine after rain !

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