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RUTH.

HE stood breast high amid the corn

SCasped by the gofden Tight of morn,

Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.
On her cheek an autumn flush
Deeply ripen'd;---such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn
Round her eyes her tresses fell-
Which were blackest none could tell ;
But long lashes veiled a light
That had else been all too bright.
And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim ;-
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.
Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ;
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.

Hood.

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SUNRISE.
O! here the gentle lark, weary of rest,

From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,
And wakes the morning from whose silver

breast
The sun ariseth in its majesty,
Who doth the world so gloriously behold,
The altar tops and hills seem burnished gold.

Shakspeare.

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I

COME, I come! ye have called me long;

I come o'er the mountains with light and song ;

Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose stars on the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the south, and the chestnut flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest bowers ;
And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains;
But it is not for me, or my hour of bloom
To speak of the ruin or the tomb.

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Come fort to that sunsas,

Away from the dwelings of care-
The waters are sparkling i gruvre and see
Away from the chamber and snizen II
The young leaves are dancing in breeze
Their bright stems thrill to the wild wooc sta
And youth is abroad in my green domains.

Mrs. Henne

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COME, I come! ye have called me long;

I come o'er the mountains with light and song ;

Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose stars on the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the south, and the chestnut flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest bowers ;
And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains ;
But it is not for me, or my hour of bloom
To speak of the ruin or the tomb.

I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy north,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth ;
And the fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free;
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,
And called out each voice of the deep blue sky;
From the night bird's lay through the starry time
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
Where the dark fir branch into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain;
They are sweeping on to the silvery main ;
They are flashing down from the mountain brows,
They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs ;
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose lip and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly!
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine-I may not stay.

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen ;
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth.
Their bright stems thrill to the wild wood strains,
And youth is abroad in my green domains.

Mrs. Hemans.

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