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"Forbid it, Heaven!" the hermit cried,
And clasped her to his breast:
The wondering fair one turn'd to chide :
'Twas Edwin's self that prest!

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to see

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restored to love and thee.

Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And every care resign;

And shall we never, never part,
My life-my all that's mine?

No, never from this hour to part,

We'll live and love so true;

The sigh that rends thy constant heart,
Shall break thy Edwin's, too."

Goldsmith.

H

A MORNING SONG.

ARK, hark! the lark at Heaven's gate sings,

And Phoebus 'gins arise,

The steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;

With everything that pretty bin,
My lady sweet, arise;

Arise, arise!

Shakspeare.

TH

MOUNTAIN SCENERY.

HE western waves of ebbing day
Roll'd o'er the glen their level way:
Each purple peak, each flinty spire,
Was bathed in floods of living fire.
But not a setting beam could glow
Within the dark ravine below

Where twined the path, in shadow hid,
Round many a rocky pyramid,
Shooting abruptly from the dell
Its thunder-splinter'd pinnacle;
Round many an insulated mass,
The native bulwarks of the pass;
Huge as the tower which builders vain,
Presumptuous, piled on Shinar's plain,
The rocky summits, split and rent,
Formed turret, dome, or battlement,
Or seem'd fantastically set
With cupola or minaret,

Crests-wild as pagod ever deck'd,
Or mosque of eastern architect.

Nor were those earth-born castles bare,
Nor lack'd they many a banner fair,
For, from their shiver'd brows display'd
Far o'er th' unfathomable glade,
All twinkling with the dewdrops sheen,
The briar-rose fell in streamers green,
And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes,
Waved in the west wind's summer sighs.

Boon Nature scatter'd, free and wild,
Each plant or flower, the mountain's child.
Here eglantine embalm'd the air,
Hawthorn and hazel mingled there;
The primrose pale and violet flower
Found in each cliff a narrow bower;
Nightshade and foxglove, side by side,
Emblems of punishment and pride,

Group'd their dark hues with every stain
The weather-beaten crags retain.

With boughs that quaked at every breath,
Grey birch and aspen wept beneath.
Aloft, the ash and warrior oak
Cast anchor in the rifted rock ;

And higher yet the pine-tree hung
His scatter'd trunk, and frequent flung,
Where seem'd the cliffs to meet on high,
His boughs athwart the narrow sky.

Scott.

A

MISS BLANCHE'S ROSE.

ND you are the poet, and so you want

Something-what is it--a theme or fancy? Something or other the muse won't grant

In your old poetical necromancy.

Why, one-half of you poets—you can't denyDon't know the muse when you chance to meet her, But sit in your attics and mope and sigh

For a faineant goddess to drop from the sky, When flesh and blood may be standing by, Quite at your service, should you but greet her.

What if I told you my own romance?

Women are poets if you so take them, One-third poet-the rest what chance

Of man and marriage may choose to make them. Give me ten minutes before you goHere at the window we'll sit together, Watching the currents that ebb and flow, Watching the world as it drifts below, Up the hot avenue's dusty glowIsn't it pleasant, this bright June weather?

Well, it was after the war broke out,

And I was a school girl fresh from Paris,
Papa had contracts, and roamed about,
And I did nothing-for I was an heiress;
Picked some lint, now I think. Perhaps
Knitted some stockings-a dozen nearly,
Havelocks made for the soldiers' caps,
Stood at the fair-tables and peddled traps
Quite at a profit. The shoulder straps
Thought I was pretty. Ah, thank you really!

Still, it was stupid. Ratata-tat?

Those were the sounds of that battle summer, Till the earth seemed a parchment, round and flat, And every foot-fall tap of a drummer;

And day by day down the avenue went

Cavalry, infantry, all together,

Till my pitying angel one day sent
My fate in the shape of a regiment
That halted just as the day was spent
Here, at our door, in the bright June weather.

None of our dandy warriors they;

Men from the West, but where I know not; Haggard and travel-stained, worn and grey, With never a ribbon, or lace, or bow-knot;

And I opened the window, and leaning there I felt in their presence the free wood's blowing; My neck, and shoulders, and arms were bare— I did not dream they might think me fairBut I had some flowers that night in my hair, And here, in my bosom, a red rose glowing.

And I looked from the window along the line,
Dusty and dirty, grim and solemn,

Till an eye like a bayonet flash met mine,

And a dark face grew from the darkening column;

And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair,
Till cheeks and shoulders burned altogether,
And the next I found myself standing there
With my eyelids wet, and my cheeks less fair,
And the rose from my bosom tossed high in air,
Like a blood-drop falling on plume and feather.

Then I drew back quickly-there came a cheer,
A rush of figures, a noise and tussle-
And then it was over, and high and clear
My red rose bloomed on his gun's black muzzle.
Then far in the darkness a sharp voice cried,
And slowly and steadily, all together,

Shoulder to shoulder and side to side,
Rising and falling, and swaying wide,

But beaming above them the rose-my pride-
They marched away in the twilight weather.

And I leaned from the window and watched my rose,
'Tossed on the wave of the surging column,
Warmed from above in the sunset glows-
Borne from below by an impulse solemn.
Then I shut the window. I heard no more
Of my soldier friend, my flower neither,
But lived my life as I did before;

I did not go as a nurse to the war-
Sick folks to me are a dreadful bore,
So I didn't go to the hospitals either.

You smile, O poet, and what do you?

You lean from the windows, and watch Life's column Trampling and struggling through dust and dew, Filled with its purpose grave and solemn;

And an act, a gesture, a face-who knows? Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you,

And you pluck from your bosom that verse that grow, And down it flies like my red red rose,

And sit and dream as away it goes,

you

And think that your duty is done-now don't you?

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