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And strange bright birds on their starry wings Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ?

Not there; not there, my child. Is it far away in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ? Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral

Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ?

Not there; not there, my child.
Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy,
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair,
Sorrow and death may not enter there ;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom ;
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
It is there ; it is there, my

child. Mrs. Hemans.


fifty years,

next harvest moon.
How fondly I remember,

Dear wife, that sunny afternoon,
That sweet time of September !
I saw their beams of glowing light

(Soft shadows intervening)
Made thy bright face more rosy bright

While in the harvest gleaning.
All day, among the shining corn,

My gaze to thee was turning;
Oh, day of days! the love new-born

In every vein was burning !

Thy gentle voice in song I heard

Śweet as the dove's at e'ening; And all my soul in rapture stirred

While in the harvest gleaning.
We saw the harvest moon arise

In seas of rosy splendour;
A richer light was in our eyes,

A presence warm and tender;
The few words trembled on the tongue,

Dear wife, how full their meaning !
For aye! the bells rang blithe ere long

After that harvest gleaning.
Oh! blessings on all summer hours,

And such sweet harvest weather-
Knitting two fond young hearts, like ours,

In love's bright bonds together;
For hath not lo dear wife of mine,

Still on my bosom leaning,
Made all the dark year brighter shine

Since that old harvest gleaning ?
We've shared these fifty long, long years,

Our pleasure and our sorrow;
We still may mingle smiles and tears

Till one soon-coming morrow;
And then; oh, would that both might die,

From earth our fancies weaning,
And go where Heaven's bright harvests lie
For our eternal gleaning.

Westby Gibson. WILD FLOWERS.


EAUTIFUL children of the woods and fields !
That bloom by mountain streamlets 'mid the

Or into clusters, 'neath the hazels, gather;
Or where by hoary rocks you


bields, And sweetly flourish on through summer weather:

I love ye all !

Beautiful flowers ! to me ye fresher seem

From the Almighty hand that fashioned all,

Than those that flourish by a garden-wall ; And I can image you, as in a dream, Fair, modest maidens, nursed in hamlets small :

I love ye all !

Beautiful gems ! that on the brow of earth

Are fixed, as in a queenly diadem ;

Though lowly ye, and most without a name, Young hearts rejoice to see your buds come forth, As light erewhile into the dark world came :

I love ye all !

Beautiful things ye are, where'er ye grow!

The wild red rose—the speedwell's peeping eyesOur own bluebell—the daisy, that doth rise Wherever sunbeams fall or winds do blow; And thousands more, of blessed forms and dyes:

I love ye all !

Beautiful nurslings of the early dew!

Fanned in your loveliness, by every breeze,

And shaded o'er by green and arching trees;
I often wish that I were one of you,
Dwelling afar upon the grassy leas :-

I love ye all !

Beautiful watchers ! day and night ye wake !

The evening star grows dim and fades away, And morning comes and goes, and then the day Within the arms of night its rest doth take ; But ye are watchful wheresoe'er we stray :

I love ye all !

Beautiful objects of the wild-bee's love!

The wild-bird joys your opening bloom to see,
And in your native woods and wilds to be.
All hearts, to Nature true, ye strangely move ;
Ye are so passing fair-so passing free :-

I love ye all !

Beautiful children of the glen and dell

The dingle deep--the moorland stretching wide, And of the mossy fountain's sedgy side! Ye o'er my heart have thrown a lovesome spell ; And, though the worldling, scorning, may deride:-

I love ye all !

Robert Nicoll.


ESTLESS forms of living light,


Cheating still the curious sight
With a thousand shadowings;
Various as the tints of even,
Gorgeous as the hues of heaven,
Reflected on your native streams
In flitting, flashing, billowy gleams.
Harmless warriors clad in mail
Of silver breastplate, golden scale ;

Mail of Nature's own bestowing,
With peaceful radiance mildly glowing
Keener than the Tartar's arrow,
Sport ye in your sea so narrow.
Was the sun himself your sire ?
Were ye born of vital fire ?
Or of the shade of golden flowers,
Such as we fetch from eastern bowers,
To mock this murky clime of ours ?
Upwards, downwards, now ye glance,
Weaving many a mazy dance;
Seeming still to grow in size,
When ye would elude our eyes.
Pretty creatures ! we might deem
Ye were happy as ye seem,
As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe,
As light, as loving, and as lithe,
As gladly earnest in your play,
As when ye gleamed in fair Cathay;
And yet, since on this hapless earth
There's small sincerity in mirth,
And laughter oft is but an art
To drown the outcry of the heart,
It may be, that your ceaseless gambols,
Your wheelings, dartings, divings, rambles,
Your restless roving round and round
The circuit of your crystal bound,
Is but the task of weary pain,
An endless labour, dull and vain;
And while your forms are gaily shining,
Your little lives are inly pining!
Nay—but still I fain would dream
That ye are happy as ye seem.

Hartley Coleridge.

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