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In the skies the sapphire blue
Now hath won its richest hue;
In the woods the breath of song

Night and day
Floats with leafy scent along-

Come away! Where the boughs with dewy gloom Darken each thick bed of bloom

Come away!

In the deep heart of the rose
Now the crimson love-hue glows;
Now the glow-worm's lamp by night

Sheds a ray,
Dreamy, starry, queenly bright-

Come away! Where the fairy cup-moss lies, With the wild-wood strawberries,

Come away!

Now each tree by summer crown'd, Sheds its own rich twilight round, Glancing there from sun to shade,

Bright wings play ; There the deer its couch hath made

Come away!

Where the smooth leaves of the lime Glisten in their honey-time

Come away-away!



When the wind blows

In the sweet rose-tree, And the cow lows

On the fragrant lea, And the stream flows

All bright and free,

'Tis not for thee, 'tis not for me, 'Tis not for any one here I trow:

The gentle wind bloweth,
The happy cow loweth,

The merry stream floweth,
For all below!

O the Spring! the bountiful Spring !
She shineth and smileth on every thing.

Where come the sheep ?

To the rich man's moor. Where cometh sleep?

To the bed that's poor. Peasants must weep,

And kings endure;

That is a fate that none can cure ;
Yet Spring doth all she can, I trow;

She brings the bright hours,
She weaves the sweet flowers,

She dresseth her bowers,
For all below!

O the Spring, &c.



THERE's a white stone placed upon yonder tomb,

Beneath is a soldier lying, The death-wound came amid sword and plume,

When banner and ball were flying.

Yet now he sleeps, the turf on his breast,

By wet wild flowers surrounded ; The church shadow falls o'er his place of rest,

Where the steps of his childhood bounded.

There were tears that fell from manly eyes,

There was woman's gentle weeping, And the wailing of age and infant cries,

O'er the grave where he lies sleeping.

He had left his home in his spirit's pride,

With his father's sword and blessing ; He stood with the valiant side by side,

His country's wrongs redressing.

He came again, in the light of his fame,

When the red campaign was over ;
One heart that in secret had kept his name

Was claimed by the soldier lover.

But the cloud of strife came upon the sky;

He left his sweet home for battle ;


And his young child's lisp for the loud war-cry,

And the cannon's long death-rattle.

He came again,—but an altered man:

The path of the grave was before him,
And the smile that he wore was cold and wan,

And the shadow of death hung o'er him..

He spoke of victory,-spoke of cheer :

These are words that are vainly spoken To the childless mother or orphan's ear,

Or the widow whose heart is broken.

A helmet and sword are engraved on the stone,

Half hidden by yonder willow ; There he sleeps, whose death in battle was won,

But who died on his own home-pillow.



“ COME to my arms, my dear wee pet,
My gleesome, gentle Harriet !
The sweetest babe thou art to me,
That ever sat on parent's knee ;
Thy every feature is so cheering,
And every motion so endearing.
Thou hast that eye was mine erewhile,
Thy mother's blithe and grateful smile,
And such a playful, merry mien,
That care flies off whene'er thou'rt seen.

Child of my age and dearest love!
A precious gift from God above,
I take thy pure and gentle frame,
And tiny mind of mountain flame ;
And hope that through life's chequered glade, —
That weary path which all must tread,
Some credit from thy name will flow
To the old bard that loved thee so.
At least thou shalt not want thy meed, -
His blessings on thy beauteous head,
And prayers to Him whose sacred breath
Lightened the shades of life apd death-
Who said with great benignity,
· Let little children come to me.'

“ 'Tis very strange, my little dove !
That all I ever loved, or love,
In wondrous visions still I trace,
While gazing on thy guiltless face ;
Thy very name brings to my mind
One, whose high hirth and soul refined
Witheld her not from naming me,
E'en in life's last extremity.
Sweet babe! thou art memorial dear
Of all I honour and revere !

Crow on, sweet child! thy wild delight
Is moved by visions heavenly bright:
What wealth from nature may'st thou gain,
With promptings high to heart and brain !
But hope is all--though yet unproved,
Thou art a shepherd's best beloved.

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