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The service over, on the Sabbath-day,
I join'd him in the garden, where we sat
And chatted in the sun But all at once
It came upon me that the gardener's hand
Had grown less diligent; for tho' 'twas June
The garden that had been the village pride
Look'd but the shadow of its former self;
And ere the week was out I saw in church
Two samples fairer far than any blown

In Hughie's garden-blooming brighter far
In sweeter soil. What wonder that a man,
Loving the pansies as the weaver did-
A skillful judge, moreover-should admire
Sweet Mary Moffat's sparkling pansy eyes?

The truth was out. The weaver play'd the game (I christen'd it in sport that very day)

Of "Love among the Pansies!" As he spoke,
Telling me all, I saw upon his face

The peevish cloud that it had worn in youth;
I cheer'd him as I could, and bade him hope:
"You both are poor, but, Sutherland, God's flowers
Are poor as well!" He brighten'd as I spoke,
And answer'd, "It is settled! I have kept
The secret till the last, lest ‘nay' should come
And spoil it all; but 'ay' has come instead,
And all the help we wait for is your own!"

Even here, I think, his angel clung to him. The fairies of his garden haunted him With smiles and sympathies that made His likes and dislikes, though he knew it not. Beauty he loved if it was meek and mild, And like his pansies tender ev'n to tears; And so he chose a maiden pure and low, Who, like his garden pets, had love to spare, Sunshine to cast upon his pallid cheek, And yet a tender clinging thing, too weak To bloom uncared for and unsmiled upon.

Soon Sutherland and she he loved were one,And bonnily a moon of honey gleam'd At night among the flowers! Amid the spring That follow'd, blossom'd with the other buds A tiny maiden with her mother's eyes. The little garden was itself again, The sunshine sparkled on the azure beds; The angel Heaven had sent to save a soul Stole from the blooms and took an infant shape; And, wild with pleasure, seeing how the flowers Had given her their choicest lights and shades, The father bore his baby to the font And had her christen'd PANSY.

After that,

Poor Hugh was happy as the days were long,
Divided in his cares for all his pets,
And proudest of the one he loved the best.
The summer found him merry as a king,

Dancing the little one upon his knee

Here in the garden, while the plots around Gleam'd in the sun, and seem'd as glad as he.

But moons of honey wane, and summer suns Of wedlock set to bring the autumn in! Hugh Sutherland, with wife and child to feed, Wrought sore to gain his pittance in a world His pansies made so fair. Came Poverty With haggard eyes to dwell within the house; When first she saw the garden she was glad, And, seated on the threshold, smiled and span. But times grew harder, bread was scarce as gold, A shadow fell on Pansy and the flowers; And when the strife was sorest, Hugh received An office-lighter work and higher pay— To take a foreman's place in Edinglass. 'Twas hard, 'twas hard, to leave the little place He loved so dearly; but the weaver look'd At Mary, saw the sorrow in her face, And gave consent,-happy at heart to think His dear ones would not want. To Edinglass They went, and settled. Thro' the winter hours Bravely the weaver toil'd; his wife and child Were happy, he was heartsome-tho' his taste Was grassy lowlands and the caller air.

The cottage here remain'd untenanted, The angel of the flowers forsook the place, The sunshine faded, and the pansies died.

Two summers pass'd; and still in Edinglass The weaver toil'd, and ever when I went Into the city, to his home I hied— A welcome guest. Now first I saw a change Had come to Sutherland: for he was pale And peevish, had a venom on his tongue, And hung the under-lip like one that doubts, Part of the truth I heard, and part I sawBut knew too late, when all the ill was done! At first, poor Hugh had shrunk from making friends And pored among his books of botany; And later, in the dull dark nights he sat, A dismal book upon his knee, and read; A book no longer full of leaves and flowers, That glimmer'd on the soul's sweet consciousness, Yet seem'd to fill the eye,-a dismal book,Big-sounding Latin, English dull and dark, And not a breath of summer in it all. The sunshine perish'd in the city's smoke, The pansies grew no more to comfort him, And he began to spend his nights with those Who waste their substance in the public-house: The flowers had lent a sparkle to his talk, Which pleased the muddled wits of idle men. Sought after, treated, liked by one and all, He took to drinking; and at last lay down Stupid and senseless on a rainy night, And ere he waken'd caught the flaming fire, Which gleams to white heat on the face, and burns Clear crimson in the iung

But it was long

Ere any knew poor Hughie's plight; and, ere
He saw his danger, on the mother's breast
Lay Pansy withering; tho' the dewy breath
Of spring was floating like a misty rain
Down from the mountains. Then the tiny flower
Folded its leaves in silence, and the sleep
That dwells in winter on the pansy-beds
Fell on the weaver's house. At that sad hour
I enter'd, scarcely welcomed with a word
Of greeting: by the hearth the woman sat
Weeping full sore, her apron o'er a face
Haggard with midnight watching, while the man
Cover'd his bloodshot eyes and cursed himself.
Then leaning o'er, my hand on his, I said—
"She could not bear the smoke of cities, Hugh!
God to His garden has transplanted her,
Where summer dwells forever, and the air
Is fresh and pure!" But Hughie did not speak,
I saw full plainly that he blamed himself;
And ere the day was out he bent above
His little sleeping flower, and wept, and said:
"Ay, sir! she wither'd, wither'd like the rest,
Neglected!" and I saw his heart was full.
When Pansy slept beneath the churchyard grass
Poor Hughie's angel had return'd to Heaven,
And all his heart was dark. His ways grew strange,
Peevish, and sullen; often he would sit

And drink alone; the wife and he grew cold,
And harsh to one another; till at last
A stern physician put an end to all,
And told him he must die.

No bitter cry,
No sound of wailing rose within the house
After the doctor spoke, but Mary mourn'd
In silence, Hughie smoked his pipe and set
His teeth together, at the ingleside.
Days pass'd; the only token of a change
Was Hughie's face—the peevish cloud of care
Seem'd melting to a tender gentleness.
After a time, the wife forgot her grief,
Or could at times forget it, in the care
Her husband's sickness brought. I went to them
As often as I could, for Sutherland
Was dear to me, and dearer for his sin.
Weak as he was he did his best to toil,
But it was weary work! By slow degrees,
When May was breathing on the sickly bunch
Of mignonette upon the window-sill,

I saw his smile was softly wearing round
To what it used to be, when here he sat
Rearing his flowers; altho' his brow at times
Grew cloudy, and he gnaw'd his under lip.
At last I found him seated by the hearth,
Trying to read: I led his mind to themes
Of old langsyne, and saw his eyes grow dim:
"O sir," he cried, "I cannot, cannot rest!
Something I long for, and I know not what,
Torments me night and day!" I saw it all,

And sparkling with the brilliance of the thought,
Look'd in his eyes and caught his hand, and cried,
"Hugh, it's the pansies! Spring has come again,
The sunshine breathes its gold upon the air,
And threads it through the petals of the flowers,
Yet here you linger in the dark!" I ceased,
And watch'd him. Then he trembled as he said,
"I see it now, for as I read the book,

The lines and words, the Latin seem'd to bud,
And they peep'd thro'." He smiled, like one ashamed,
Adding in a low voice, "I long to see

The pansies ere I die!"

What heart of stone

Could throb on coldly, sir, at words like those?
Not mine, not mine! Within a week poor Hugh
Had left the smoke of Edinglass behind,
And felt the wind that runs along the lanes,
Spreading a carpet of the grass and flowers
For June the sunny-hair'd to walk upon.
In the old cottage here he dwelt again:
The place was wilder than it once had been,
But buds were blowing green around about,
And with the glad return of Sutherland
The angel of the flowers came back again.
The end was near, and Hugh was wearied out,
And like a flower was closing up his leaves
Under the dropping of the gloaming dews.

And daily, in the summer afternoon,

I found him seated on the threshold there,
Watching his flowers, and all the place, I thought,
Brighten'd when he was nigh. Now first I talk'd
Of heavenly hopes unto him, and I knew
The angel help'd me. On the day he died
The pain had put its shadow on his face,
And words of doubt were on his tremulous lips:
"Ah, Hughie, life is easy!" I exclaim'd,
"Easier, better, than we know ourselves:
'Tis pansy-growing on a mighty scale,
And God above us is the gardener.
The fairest win the prizes, that is just,
But all the flowers are dear to God the Lord:
The gardener loves them all, He loves them all!"
He saw the sunshine on the pansy-beds
And brighten'd. Then by slow degrees he grew
Cheerful and meek as dying man could be,
And as I spoke there came from far away
The faint sweet melody of Sabbath bells.
And "Hugh," I said, "if God the Gardener
Neglected those he rears as you have done
Your pansies and your Pansy, it were ill
For we who blossom in His garden. Night
And morning He is busy at His work.
He smiles to give us sunshine, and we live:
He stoops to pluck us softly, and our hearts
Tremble to see the darkness, knowing not
It is the shadow He, in stooping, casts.
He pluckt your Pansy so, and it was well.
But, Hugh, though some be beautiful and grand,

Some sickly, like yourself, and mean and poor,
He loves them all, the Gardener loves them all;"
Then later, when no longer he could sit
Out on the threshold, and the end was near,
We set a plate of pansies by his bed

To cheer him. "He is coming near," I said;
"Great is the garden; but the Gardener

Is coming to the corner where you bloom

So sickly!" And he smiled, and moan'd, "I hear!"
And sank upon his pillow wearily.

His hollow eyes no longer bore the light,
The darkness gather'd round him as I said,
"The Gardener is standing at your side,
His shade is on you, and you cannot see:
O Lord, that lovest both the strong and weak,
Pluck him and wear him!" Even as I pray'd
I felt the shadow there and hid my face;
But when I look'd again the flower was pluck'd,
The shadow gone: the sunshine thro' the blind
Gleam'd faintly, and the widow'd woman wept.

THE CLOUD.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet buds every one,

When rocked to rest on their Mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the Blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers
Lightning my pilot sits;

In a cavern under is fettered the Thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits.

Over earth and ocean with gentle motion
This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the Genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills and the crags and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream under mountain or stream

The Spirit he loves remains;

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, And his burning plumes outspread,

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning star shines dead: As on the jag of a mountain-crag

Which an earthquake rocks and swings

An eagle alit one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings.

And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea be neath,

Its ardors of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden
Whom mortals call the Moon
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer.
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee
Like a swarm of golden bees,

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,—
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.

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TASTE.

MARK AKENSIDE-" PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION."

What, then, is taste, but these internal powers
Active, and strong, and feeling alive
To each fine impulse? a discerning sense
Of decent and sumblime, with quick disgust
From things deformed or disarranged, or gross
In species? This, nor gems nor stores of gold,
Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow;
But God alone, when first his active hand
Imprints the secret bias of the soul.
He, mighty Parent! wise and just in all,
Free as the vital breeze or light of heaven,
Reveals the charms of nature. Ask the swain
Who journeys homeward from a summer day's
Long labour, why, forgetful of his toils
And due repose, he loiters to behold

The sunshine gleaming, as through amber clouds,
O'er all the western sky; full soon, I ween,
His rude expression and untutored airs,
Beyond the power of language, will unfold
Masorm of beauty smiling at his heart,

How lovely! how commanding! But though heaven
In every breast hath sown these early seeds
Of love and admiration, yet in vain,
Without fair culture's kind parental aid,
Without enlivening suns, and genial showers,
And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope,
The tender plant should rear its blooming head,
Or yield the harvest promised in its spring.
Nor yet will every soil with equal stores
Repay the tiller's labour; or attend
His will, obsequious, whether to produce
The olive or the laurel. Different minds
Incline to different objects; one pursues
The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild;
Another sighs for harmony, and grace,
And gentlest beauty. Hence when lightning fires
The arch of heaven, and thunders rock the ground;
When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air,
And ocean, groaning from his lowest bed,
Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky,
Amid the mighty uproar, while below

The nations tremble, Shakspeare looks abroad
From some high cliff superior, and enjoys
The elemental war. But Waller longs
All on the margin of some flowery stream
To spread his careless limbs amid the cool
Of plantane shad s, and to the listening deer
The tale of slighted vows and love's disdain
Resound soft warbling all the livelong day;
Consenting zephyr sighs; the weeping rill
Joins in his plaint, melodious; mute the groves;
And hill and dale with all their echoes mourn.
Such and so various are the tastes of men.

O blest of heaven! whom not the languid songs

Of luxury, the siren! not the bribes

Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils

Of pageant honour, can seduce to leave

Those ever. blooming sweets which from the store
Of nature fair Imagination culls

To charm the enlivened soul. What though not all
Of mortal offspring can attain the heights
Of envied life: though only few possess
Patrician treasures or imperial state;
Yet Nature's care, to all her children just,
With richer treasures and an ampler state,
Endows at large whatever happy man
Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp,
The rural honors his. What'er adorns
The princely dome, the column and the arch,
The bereathing marble and the sculptured gold,
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim,
His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the spring
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem
Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him the hand
Of autumn tinges every fertile branch
With blooming gold and blushes like the morn.
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings;
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes
The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake
Fresh pleasure, unreproved. Nor thence partakes
Fresh pleasure only: for the attentive mind,
By this harmonious action on her powers,
Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft
In outward things to meditate the charm
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home
To find a kindred order, to exert
Within herself this elegance of love,

This fair inspired delight: her tempered powers
Refine at length, and every passion wears
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien,
But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze
On nature's form, where, negligent of all
These lesser graces, she assumes the port
Of that eternal majesty that weighed

The world's foundations: if to these the mind
Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far
Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms
Of servile custom cramp her generous power;
Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth
Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down
To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear?
Lo! she appeals to nature, to the winds
And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course,
The elements and seasons: all declare
For what the eternal Maker has ordained
The powers of man: we feel within ourselves
His energy divine: he tells the heart,
He meant, he made us to behold and love
What he beholds and loves, the general orb

Of life and being; to be great like him,
Beneficient and active. Thus the men

Whom nature's works can charm, with God himself
Hold converse-grow familiar day by day.

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Strange, another thing; when our boys and girls was grown,

And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone;

When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be,

The Lord of Hosts He come one day, an' took him. away from me.

Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall,

Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all;

And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown,

Till at last he went a courtin', and brought a wife from town.

She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile,

She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her. I know;

But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go.

She had an edication, an' that was good for her; But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things too fur;

An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick),

That I never swallowed a grammar, or eat a 'rith. metic.

So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done→
They was a family of themselves, and I another one;
And a very little cottage one family will do,
But I never have seen a house that was big enough
for two.

An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye,

An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try, But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow, When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me could go.

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