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HE moon shines white and silent

On the mist, which, like a tide Of some enchanted ocean, O’er the wide marsh doth glide, Spreading its ghost-like billows

Silently far and wide.

A vague and starry magic

Makes all things mysteries,
And looses the earth's dumb spirit

Up to the longing skies-
I seem to hear deep whispers,

And tremulous replies.

The fireflies o'er the meadow

In pulses come and go; The elm tree's heavy shadow

Weighs on the grass below, And faintly from the distance

The dreaming cock doth crow.

All things look strange and mystic,

The very bushes swell
And take wild shapes and motions,

As if beneath a spell,
They seem not the same lilacs

From childhood known so well.

The snow of deepest silence

On everything doth fall, So beautiful and quiet,

And yet so like a pall,As if all life were ended,

And rest were come to all.

Oh, wild and wondrous midnight,
There is a night in thee
To make the charmed body

Almost like spirit be,
And give it some faint glimpse
Of immortality!



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NANNY, wilt thou gang


Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town?
Can silent glens have charms for thee,
The lowly cot and russet gown ?
Nae langer drest in silken sheen,

Nae langer deck'd wi' jewels rare,
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?

0, Nanny, when thou'rt far awa,

Wilt thou not cast a look behind ?
Say, canst thou face the flaky snaw,

Nor shrink before the winter wind ?
O, can that soft and gentle mien

Severest hardships learn to bear,
Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?

Nanny, canst thou love so true,

Through perils keen wi' me to gae ?
Or, when thy swain mishap shall rue,

To share with him the pang of wae ?
Say, should disease or pain befall,

Wilt thou assume the nurse's care,
Nor, wishful, those gay scenes recall,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?

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And when at last thy love shall die,

Wilt thou receive his parting breath ?
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,

And cheer with smiles the bed of death ?
And wilt thou o'er his much-loved clay

Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear? Nor then regret those scenes so gay, Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?

Dr. Thomas Percy.



LOVE that box of mignonette ;

Though worthless in your eyes,
Above your choicest hot-house flowers,

My mignonette I prize ;
Thank Heaven, not yet I've learned on that

A money worth to set;
'Tis priceless as the thoughts it brings,

My box of mignonette
I know my own sweet mignonette

Is neither strange nor rare,
Your garden flaunters burn with hues

That it may never wear;
Yet on your garden's rarest blooms

No eyes were ever set
With more delight than mine on yours,

My box of mignonette.
Why do I prize my mignonette

That lights my window there 2-
It adds a pleasure to delight,

It steals a weight from care ;
What happy daylight dreams it brings

Can I not half forget
My long, long hours of weary work,

With you, my mignonette ?

It tells of May, my mignonette,

And as I see it bloom,
I think the green, bright, pleasant spring

Comes freshly through my room ;
Our narrow court is dark and close,

Yet when my eyes you met,
Wide fields lay stretching from my sight,

My box of mignonette.
What talks it of, my mignonette ?-

To me it babbles still
Of woodland bank of primroses,

Of heath and breezy hill ;
Through country lanes and daisied fields,

Through paths with morning wet,
Again I trip, as when a girl,

With you, my mignonette. For this I love my mignonette,

My window garden small,
That country thoughts and scents and sounds

Around me loves to call ;
For this, though low in rich men's thoughts

Your worth and love be set-
I bless you, pleasure of the poor,
My own sweet mignonette.

W. C. Bennett.


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HE minstrel boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you'll find him; His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him. " Land of song !” said the warrior bard,

“ Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

One faithful harp shall praise thee!'

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