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And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair, Till cheeks and shoulders burned altogether,

And the next I found myself standing there With my eyelids wet, and my cheeks less fair, And the rose from my bosom tossed high in air, Like a blood-drop falling on plume and feather. Then I drew back quickly-there came a cheer,

A rush of figures, a noise and tussleAnd then it was over, and high and clear My red rose bloomed on his gun's black muzzle.

Then far in the darkness a sharp voice cried, And slowly and steadily, all together,

Shoulder to shoulder and side to side, Rising and falling, and swaying wide, But beaming above them the rose-my pride — They marched away in the twilight weather. And I leaned from the window and watched my ros",

'Tossed on the wave of the surging column, Warmed from above in the sunset glowsBorne from below by an impulse solemn.

Then I shut the window. I heard no more
Of my soldier friend, my flower neither,

But lived my life as I did before;
I did not go as a nurse to the war-

Sick folks to me are a dreadful bore,
So I didn't go to the hospitals either.

You smile, O poet, and what do you?

You lean from the windows, and watch Life's column Trampling and struggling through dust and dew, Filled with its purpose grave and solemn;

And an act, a gesture, a face—who knows? Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you,

And you pluck from yourbosom that verse that grow.), And down it flies like my red red rose,

And you sit and dream aś away it goes, And think that your duty is done—now don't you?

I know your answer. I'm not yet through:

Look at the photograph—"In the Trenches”That dead man in the coat of blue Holds a withered rose in his hand! That clenches

Nothing. Except that the sun paints true,
And a woman sometimes is prophetic-minded,

And that's my romance. And, poet, you
Take it and mould it to suit your view,

And who knows but you may find it to
Come to your heart once more as mine did?

Bret Harte.



IRD of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland

and lea!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place-.
O to abide in the desert with thee !

Wild is thy lay and loud,

Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth ;

Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O’er moor and mountain green,
O’er the red streamer that heralds the day,

Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place-
O to abide in the desert with thee !

James Hogg



LITTLE flowers, you love me so,

You could not do without me;
O little birds, that come and go,
You sing sweet songs about me ;
O little moss, observed by few,

That round the tree is creeping,
You like my head to rest on you,

When I am idly sleeping. O rushes by the river side,

You bow when I come near you ;
O fish, you leap about with pride

Because you think I hear you ;
O river, you shine clear and bright,

To tempt me to look on you;
O water-lilies, pure

and white, You hope that I shall win you. O pretty things, you love me so,

I see I must not leave you ; You'd find it very dull I know,-

I should not like to grieve you. Don't wrinkle up, you silly moss;

My flowers, you need not shiver; My little birds, don't look so cross ;

Don't talk so loud, my river. I'm telling you I will not go,

It's foolish to feel slighted; It's rude to interrupt me so,

You ought to be delighted.

Ah! now you're growing good, I see,

Though anger is beguiling ;
The pretty blossoms nod at me-

I see a robin smiling.

And I will make a promise, dears,

I'll love you through the happy years,

Till I'm a nice old lady!
True love (like yours and mine), they say,

Can never think of ceasing,
But year by year, and day by day,

Keeps steadily increasing.



IRDS ! joyous birds of the wandering wing!
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring ?

“We come from the shores of the green old Nile,
From the land where the roses of Sharon smile,
From the palms that wave through the Indian sky,
From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby.
We have swept o'er cities in song renowned-
Silent they lie with the deserts around!
We have crossed proud rivers, whose tide hath rolled
All dark with the warrior blood of old;
And each worn wing hath regained its home,
Under peasant's roof-tree or monarch's dome.
And what have ye found in the monarch's dome,
Since last ye travelled the blue sea's foam ?
“We have found a change, we have found a pall,
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall,
And a mark on the floor, as of life-drops spilt-
Nought looks the same, save the nest we built !".

Oh, joyous birds ! it hath still been so ;
Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go !
But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep,
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep;
Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot,
Since last ye parted from that sweet spot ?
“A change we have found there--and many a change!
Faces, and footsteps, and all things strange!
Gone are the heads of the silvery hair,
And the young that were have a brow of care,
And the place is hushed where the children played
Nought looks the same, save the nest we made!”

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth,
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth!
Yet, through the wastes of the trackless air,
Ye have a Guide, and shall we despair ?
Ye over the desert and deep have passed,-
So may we reach our bright home at last!

Mrs. Hemans.



EAR the sledges with the bells

Silver bells !
What a world of merriment their

melody foretells !
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight,

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically swells

From the bells, bells, bells, bells-
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

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