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That I might make Oppression reel,

As only gold can make it,
And break the Tyrant's rod of steel,

As only gold can break it.
I wish—that Sympathy and Love,

And every human passion,
That has its origin above,

Would come and keep in fashion ; That Scorn, and Jealousy, and Hate,

And every base emotion,
Were buried fifty fathoms deep

Beneath the waves of ocean!
I wish—that friends were always true,

And motives always pure;
I wish the good were not so few,

I wish the bad were fewer;
I wish that parsons ne'er forgot

To heed their pious teaching;
I wish that practising was not

So different from preaching !
I wish —that modest worth might be

Appraised with truth and candour;
I wish that innocence were free

From treachery and slander;
I wish that men their vows would mind;

That women ne'er were rovers ;
I wish that wives were always kind,

And husbands always lovers !
I wish—in fine—that Joy and Mirth,

And every good Ideal,
May come erewhile, throughout the earth,

To be the glorious Real;
Till God shall every creature bless

With His supremest blessing,
And Hope be lost in Happiness,
And Wishing in Possessing!

7. Godfrey Saxe.

THE FIRST SWALLOW.

T:

HE gorse is yellow on the heath,

The banks with speedwell flowers are gay,

The oaks are budding, and, beneath,
The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath-

The silver wreath of May.
The welcome guest of settled spring,

The swallow, too, has come at last; Just at sunset, when thrushes sing, saw her dart with rapid wing,

And hailed her as she past. Come, summer visitant, attach

To my reed roof your nest of clay, And let my ear your music catch, Low twittering underneath the thatch At the grey dawn of day.

Charlotte Smith.

EDWIN AND ANGELINA.

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'URN, gentle hermit of the dale,

And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale,

With hospitable ray.
For here forlorn and lost I tread,

With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds, immeasurably spread,

Seem lengthening as I go." * Forbear, my son,” the hermit cries,

To tempt the dangerous gloom ; For yonder phantom only flies

To lure thee to thy doom.

Here, to the houseless child of want,

My door is open still :
And though my portion is but scant,

I give it with good will.

Then turn to-night, and freely share

Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,

My blessing and repose.
No flocks that range the valley free,

To slaughter I condemn;
Taught by that power that pities me

I learn to pity them.
But from the mountain's grassy side,

A guiltless feast I bring A scrip, with herbs and fruits supplied,

And water from the spring.

Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;

All earth-born cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from heaven descends,

His gentle accents fell;
The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure,

The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor,

And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch

Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,

Received the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire,

To take their evening rest,
The hermit trimm'd his little fire,

And cheer'd his pensive guest:
And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily pressed and smiled; And, skill'd in legendary lore,

The lingering hours beguiled.

Around, in sympathetic mirth,

Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,

The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart,

To soothe the stranger's woe:
For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the hermit spied,

With answering care opprest: And whence, unhappy youth,” he cried

The sorrows of thy breast? From better habitations spurned,

Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,

Or unregarded love?
Alas! the joys that fortune brings

Are trifling and decay;
And those who prize the paltry things

More trifling still than they.
And what is friendship but a name:

A charm that lulls to sleep !
A shade that follows wealth or fame,

And leaves the wretch to weep !

And love is still an emptier sound,

The modern fair one's jest; On earth unseen, or only found

To warm the turtle's nest.

For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,

And spurn the sex," he said ; But while he spoke, a rising blush

His love-lorn guest betray'd.
Surprised, he sees new beauties rise,

Swift mantling to the view,
Like colours o'er the morning skies,

As bright, as transient, too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,

Alternate spread alarms;
The lovely stranger stands confess'd

A maid in all her charms.

“And ah! forgive a stranger rude,

A wretch forlorn,” she cried, " Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude

Where Heaven and you reside.

But let a maid thy pity share,

Whom love has taught to stray:
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair

Companion of her way.
My father lived beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he;
And all his wealth was marked as mine;

He had but only me.

To win me from his tender arms,

Unnumbered suitors came;
Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feigned, a flame.

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