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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 ?




"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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ITH mingled trembling and delight,

And slowly falling feet,

A little country maiden now
Is passing down the street ;
A country child,-I know it by
Her timid air, her wandering eye.
The sunlight warm has kissed her brow,

And tinged her cheek with brown;
The odour of the violets

Comes with her to the town;
We almost guess the woodland place
Where she has dwelt, from her sweet face!

We almost read her inner thoughts

Through her large wistful eyes;
How bright to her the city seems,

How much like paradise,
As Nature's child, with bounding heart,

Looks, for the first glad time, on art.
She seems to bring the country here-

Its birds, its flowers, its dew;
And slowly, as amid the throng,

She passes from our view,
We watch her sadly, as we might
Some pleasant landscape fade from sight.
Ah, well! we would not keep her here,

These dusty streets to roam ;
So fair a flower should open with

The daisy buds at home; 'Mid primrose stars, as sweet and wild As she will be dear woodland child !

Marion Douglas.


N the palace, in the cottage,

Time is ever marching onward,

Ever onward-onward still ;
Never tiring, never resting,

Neither bending to our will;
Hastening on with even footstep,

Ever onward-onward still.
Secrets lost in dark oblivion,

Human tongue shall never tell ;
Time, their keeper, little heeding,

Marches onward-onward still.
Dreams and echoes of the past time

Waken in our memory's thrill ;
Showing by their silent teaching,

Time is onward marching still.

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ORN and footsore was the prophet

When he gained the holy hill;

“ God hath left the earth,” he murmured, Here the presence lingers still. God of all the olden prophets,

Wilt thou speak with men no more ? Have I not as truly served thee

As thy chosen ones of yore ? Hear me, Guide of my fathers,

Lo! a humble heart is mine; By Thy mercy I beseech Thee, Grant Thy servant but a sign.”

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