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Sad sighs the wind, that from those ancient elms Shakes showers of leaves upon the withered
grass : The sere and yellow wreaths with eddying sweep Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillocked graves. But list that moan! 'tis the
blind man's dog, His guide for many a day, now come to mourn The master and the friend, conjunction rare ! A man he was indeed of gentle soul, Though bred to brave the deep; the lightning's
flash Had dimmed, not closed, his mild but sightless
eyes. He was a welcome guest through all his range; (It was not wide,) no dog would bay at him : Children would run to meet him on his
appears ; Flowers faintly tinged and breathing no perfume.
But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland
wreath That circles autumn's brow: the ruddy haws Now clothe the half-leaved thorn; the bramble
bends Beneath its jetty load; the hazel hangs With auburn branches, dipping in the stream That sweeps along, and threatens to o’erflow The leaf-strewn banks: oft, statue-like, I gaze In vacancy of thought upon that stream, And chase with dreaming eye the eddying foam : Or rowan's clustered branch, or harvest-sheaf Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood.
A Mother's Prayer in Fllness. YES, take them first, my Father! Let my doves
Fold their white wings in heaven, safe on
thy breast, Ere I am called away: I dare not leave Their young hearts here, their innocent, thought
less hearts ! Ah, how the shadowy train of future ills Comes sweeping down life's vista as I gaze!
My May! my careless, ardent-tempered MayMy frank and frolic child, in whose blue eyes Wild joy and passionate woe alternate rise; Whose cheek the morning in her soul illumes ; Whose little, loving heart a word, a glance,
Can sway to grief or glee; who leaves her play,
Ah, let me stay! ah, let me still be by,
taste, Dainty and delicate—thy instinctive fear Of those unworthy of a soul so pure, Thy rare, unchildlike dignity of mien, All—they will all bring pain to thee, my child! And oh, if even their grace and goodness meet Cold looks and careless greetings, how will all
The latent evil yet undisciplined
FRANCIS S. Osgood.
A Virtuous Woman is a Crown of
And where hath fled my youthful folly ?
Hath made my spirit holy.
When day and night are calmly meeting-
And purifies its beating.
Like dewdrops from the rose-leaf dripping,
And cannot cease their sipping.
The shadowy blush that tints her cheek,
For ever coming, ever going,
That sets the stream a-flowing.
E'en like the harp-string's holiest measures, When dreams the soul of lands of rest
And everlasting pleasures.
Or where hath fled my youthful folly!
A Life of Prayer is the Life of Heaven.
And earth in her Maker's smile awakes.
the incense of grateful prayer. To prayer ;-for the glorious sun is gone, And the gathering darkness of night comes on. Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows, To shade the couch where his children repose. Then kneel while the watching stars are bright, And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of