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I know thee only in thy page
Of simplest truth, by taste refined ;-But though I ne'er have seen thy face, Not seldom, do I love to trace
The features of thy mind!
That winds its way through flowers and fern; Now gliding here, now wandering there, Diffusing coolness every where,
Refreshing all in turn :
Well from their calm, untroubled shrine ;
With balsam, half divine !
What though I ne'er have clasped thy hand,
I see thee oft in Fancy's glass; “ Edwin ” and “Ranger” in thy train, Pacing across the village plain,
The “ Broken Bridge” to pass !*
And mark thy devious footsteps threading
The “Church-yard's" green and grassy rise ; Now, stopping by some fresh-made grave, News of the timeless dead to crave,
To make the living wise !
With“ autumn's latest flowers” before thee;
To his haven of rest and glory!
And when grey Twilight weaves her web,
"And the sounds of day-life melt away;In thy“ garden plot” I see thee stand, Watching the “ night-stock’s” leaves expand
Or framing some soothing lay!
* Allusions to Miss Bowles's works.
To stir the bosom’s inmost strings ;-
Are the themes thy fancy brings !
Oh! much I love to steal away
From gairish strains, that mock my heart; To steep my soul in lays like thine, And pause o’er each wildly-witching line,
Till my tears, unbidden, start!
For thou hast ever been to me
A gentle monitor and friend; And I have gathered from thy song, Thoughts full of balm for grief and wrong,
That solace while they mend !
To give my gratitude a tongue;
Not vainly have I sung.
Adieu ! we ne'er may meet on earth,
Yet I feel I know thee passing well ;-
I'll deem it thine -FAREWELL!
ON LEAVING SCOTLAND.
BY THE REV. C. HOYLE.
Haunt of the bard and painter, hardy child
THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB OF
BY MARY HOWITT.
Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 't is full of grief and pain, It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning
brain; It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain!
The children of the rich man have not their bread to win ; They hardly know how labour is the penalty of sin; Even as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin.
And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they
to bear; In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant share; They walk among life's pleasant ways, and never know
The children of the poor man— though they be young,
each one, Early in the morning they rise up before the rising sun; And scarcely when the sun is set, their daily task is done.