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Think of him thy love had blessed! Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults perchance thou knowest,

All my madness none can know; All my hopes, where'er thou goest, Whither, yet with thee they go. Every feeling hath been shaken; Pride, which not a world could bow,

Bows to thee, by thee forsaken,

Even my soul forsakes me now; But 'tis done, - all words are idle, Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle

Force their way without the will. Fare thee well! thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie, Seared in heart, and love, and blighted,

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ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785.

WEE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,

O, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may

thieve;

What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

A daimen icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, And never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new
ane,

O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell an' keen!

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SANTA FILOMENA.

WHENE'ER a noble deed is wrought,
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts, in glad surprise,
To higher levels rise.

The tidal wave of deeper souls
Into our inmost being rolls,

And lifts us unawares
Out of all meaner cares.

Honor to those whose words and deeds
Thus help us in our daily needs,
And by their overflow
Raise us from what is low.

Thus thought I, as by night I read
Of the great army of the dead,

The trenches cold and damp,
The starved and frozen camp, -

The wounded from the battle-plain,
In dreary hospitals of pain,

The cheerless corridors,
The cold and stony floors.

Lo! in that house of misery
A lady with a lamp I see

Pass through the glimmering
gloom,

And flit from room to room.

And slow, as in a dream of bliss,
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
Her shadow as it falls
Upon the darkened walls.

As if a door in heaven should be
Opened, and then closed suddenly,
The vision came and went,
The light shone, and was spent.

On England's annals, through the long
Hereafter of her speech and song,

That light its rays shall cast
From portals of the past.

The lady with a lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
A noble type of good
Heroic womanhood.

Nor even shall be wanting here The palm, the lily, and the spear, The symbols that of yore Saint Filomena bore.

LONGFELLOW.

THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF

AGASSIZ.

MAY 28, 1857.

IT was fifty years ago,

In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay.

And Nature, the old nurse, took
The child upon her knee,
Saying, "Here is a story-book
Thy Father has written for thee."

Come, wander with me," she said
"Into regions yet untrod,
And read what is still unread
In the manuscripts of God."
And he wandered away and away,
With Nature, the dear old nurse,
Who sang to him night and day
The rhymes of the universe.

And whenever the way seemed long, Or his heart began to fail,

She would sing a more wonderful song,

Or tell a more marvellous tale.

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