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THE WOODLAND CHILD.
A little country maiden now
And tinged her cheek with brown;
Comes with her to the town ;
We almost read her inner thoughts
Through her large wistful eyes;
How much like paradise,
Looks, for the first glad time, on art.
She seems to bring the country here
Its birds, its flowers, its dew ;
She passes from our view,
These dusty streets to roam ;
The daisy buds at home ; 'Mid primrose stars, as sweet and wild As she will be- dear woodland child!
Marion Douglas. THE MARCH OF TIME.
N the palace, in the cottage,
IN by the river, by the rili,
Time is ever marching onward,
Ever onward-onward still ;
Neither bending to our will;
Ever onward-onward still.
Human tongue shall never tell ;
Marches onward-onward still.
Waken in our memory's thrill ;
Time is onward marching still.
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.”
Bowing then his head, he listened
For an answer to his prayer ; No loud burst of thunder followed,
Not a murmur stirred the air ;
Opened while he waited yet,
Sprang a tender violet. "God, I thank thee!” said the prophet,
“ Hard of heart, and blind was I, Looking to the holy mountain
For the gift of prophecy.
Freely as in old sublime;
Still give empire over time. Had I trusted in my nature,
And had faith in lowly things, Thou thyself wouldst then have sought me,
And set free my spirit's wings. But I looked for signs and wonders
That o'er men should give the sway ; Thirsting to be more than mortal,
I was even less than clay Ere I entered on my journey,
As I girt my loins to start,
The beloved of my heart.
Like to this as like may be,
Lowell. THE SUNRISE NEVER FAILED US YET.
T PON the sadness of the sea
The sunset broods regretfully,
From the far, lonely spaces, slow
F all amusements for the mind,
From logic down to fishing,
There isn't one that you can find
If we but rightly use it,
Pervert it, and abuse it.
My purse were somewhat fatter,
And not my pride to flatter;