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A myrtle rises far from human eye,
And breathes its balmy fragrance o’er the wild ;
So flourished, blooming, and unseen by all,
The young Lavinia.




AIR daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon ;

As yet the early rising sun
Has not attained her noon :

Stay stay,
Until the hastening day

Has run
But to the evening song;
And having prayed together, we

Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay, as you ;

We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay
As you or anything.

We die

hours do, and dry

Like to the summer's rain,
Or as the pearls of morning dew,
Ne'er to be found again.




AIDEN, with the meek brown eyes,
In whose orbs a shadow lies,

Like the dusk in evening skies!
Thou whose locks outshine the sun,
Golden tresses, wreathed in one,
As the braided streamlets run !
Standing with reluctant feet
Where the brook and river meet,
Womanhood and childhood fleet !
Gazing with a timid glance
On the brooklet's swift advance,
On the river's broad expanse !
Deep and still, that gliding stream
Beautiful to thee must seem,
As the river of a dream.

Then why pause with indecision,
When bright angels in thy vision
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ?
Seest thou shadows sailing by,
As the dove, with startled eye,
Sees the falcon's shadow fly?
Hear'st thou voices on the shore,
That our ears perceive no more
Deafened by the cataract's roar ?
Oh, thou child of many prayers !
Life hath quicksands—life hath snares
Care and age come unawares !
Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Morning rises into noon,
May glides onward into June.

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered
Birds and blossoms many numbered ;
Age, that bough with snows encumbered.
Gather, then, each flower that grows,
When the young heart overflows,
To embalm that tent of snows.
Bear a lily in thy hand;
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.
Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
In thy heart the dew of youth,
On thy lips the smile of truth.
Oh, that dew! like balm, shall steal
Into wounds that cannot heal,
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal.


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VIS the last rose of summer

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone ;
No flower of her kindred,

No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh !
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,

To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,,
And from Love's shining circle

The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie wither'd,

And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone ?


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HE Beautiful is everywhere,

The Good lies all around;

And every spot of this fair earth
Is truly hallowed ground.
Not holier is the lofty aisle,

Nor brighter sunny glade,
Than many a nook where lovely things

Lie slumbering in the shade.
Oh, very fair the sunny beams

That kiss the dewy grass,
Or glitter on the mountain peak,

And gild the Alpine pass;
And yet a little wandering beam

Will find its devious way,
And, streaming in the poor man's room,

Arouse him to the day.
And many a joy to lighten toil,

That little ray may bear,
And many a hope awake to life

To fight with toil and care :
The world was never yet so dark,

So sad with grief or sin,
But Heaven's love, like that small ray,

Could find an entrance in.

The Beautiful will never die,

Nor ever cease to give
A gleam of glory to the world

While little children live-
While tiny voices shout with joy,

Or childish limbs disport,
And mothers' bosoms swell with love

In cottage as in court.
All glorious is the giant sea,

Whose billows proudly roll,
But quite as great and beautiful

The calm and earnest soul,
Which, conscious of its native might,

Feels that the world is fair,
That all things have a share of good,
And Beauty's everywhere.

G. R. Emerson.


OW fair is the rose ! what a beautiful flower,

The glory of April and May !

But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, And they wither and die in a day. Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,

Above all the flowers of the field;
When its leaves are all dead, and its fine colours lost,

Still how sweet a perfume it will yield !
So frail is the youth and the beauty of men,

Though they bloom and look gay like the rose ;
But all our fond care to preserve them is vain,

Time kills them as fast as he goes.
Then I'll not be proud of my youth nor my beauty,

Since both of them wither and fade;
But gain a good name by well doing my duty;
This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.


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