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And through the warm deeps of the sky
Steal faint star-clusters, while we rest
In deep refreshment, thou and I,
Wave-cradled thus, and wind-caressed.

How like a dream are earth and heaven,
Star-beam and darkness, sky and sea;
Thy face, pale in the shadowy even,
Thy quiet eyes that gaze on me!
Oh, realize the moment's charm,

Thou dearest! We are at life's best,
Folded in God's encircling arm,

Wave-cradled thus, and wind-caressed!

"Over the flowery lawn, Maids are at play."

MAY.

CELIA THAXTER.

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AS the old glory passed

From tender May

That never the echoing blast

Of bugle-horns merry, and fast
Dying away like the past,
Welcomes the day?

Has the old Beauty gone

From golden MayThat not any more at dawn

Over the flowery lawn,

Or knolls of the forest withdrawn, Maids are at play?

Is the old freshness dead

Of the fairy May?Ah! the sad tear-drops unshed! Ah! the young maidens unwed! Golden locks-cheeks rosy red! Ah! where are they?

JOHN ESTEN COOKE.

PLEASURES OF MEMORY.

WILIGHT'S soft dews steal o'er the village green, With magic tints to harmonize the scene. Stilled is the hum that through the hamlet broke, When round the ruins of their ancient oak The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play, And games and carols closed the busy day. Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more With treasured tales and legendary lore. All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows To chase the dreams of innocent repose. All, all are fled; yet still I linger here! What secret charms this silent spot endear?

As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew,
And traced the line of life with searching view,
How throbbed my fluttering pulse with hopes and
fears,

To learn the color of my future years!

Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain. Awake but one, and, lo! what myriads rise! Each stamps its image as the other flies. Each, as the various avenues of sense

Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense,

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Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art,
Control the latent fibres of the heart.
As studious Prospero's mysterious spell
Drew every subject-spirit to his cell;
Each, at thy call advances or retires,
As judgment dictates or the scene inspires.
Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source
Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course,
And through the frame invisibly convey
The subtle, quick vibrations as they play;
Man's little universe at once o'ercast.
At once illumined when the cloud is past.

Hark! the bee winds her small but mellow horn, Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn. O'er thyiny downs she bends her busy course, And many a stream allures her to its source. "Tis noon, 'tis night. That eye so finely wrought, Beyond the search of seuse, the soar of thought, Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind; Its orb so full, its vision so confined! Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell? Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell? With conscious truth retrace the mazy clew Of summer-scents, that charmed her as she flew? Hail, Memory, hail! thy universal reign Guards the least link of Being's glorious chain.

To meet the changes time and chance present
With modest diguity and calm content.
When thy last breath, ere nature sunk to rest,
Thy meek submission to thy God expressed;
When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled,
A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed;
What to thy soul its glad assurance gave,
Its hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave?
The sweet remembrance of unblemished youth,
The still inspiring voice of Innocence and Truth!
Hail, Memory, hail! in thy exhaustless mine
From age to age unnumbered treasures shine!
Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey,
And place and time are subject to thy sway!

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O thou! with whom my heart was wont to share From reason's dawn each pleasure and each care; With whom, alas! I fondly hoped to know The humble walks of happiness below; If thy blest nature now unites above An angel's pity with a brother's love, Still o'er my life preserve thy mild control, Correct my views, and elevate my soul; Grant me thy peace and purity of mind, Devout yet cheerful, active yet resigned;

Grant me, like thee, whose heart knew no disguise, Whose blameless wishes never aimed to rise,

Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone;
The only pleasures we can call our own.
Lighter than air. hope's summer-visions die,
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky;
If but a beam of sober reason play,
Lo! fancy's fairy frost-work melts away!
But can the wiles of art, the grasp of power,
Snatch the rich relies of a well-spent hour?
These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight,
Pour round her path a stream of living light;
And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest,
Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest!

SAMUEL ROGERS.

A JOY FOREVER.

THING of beauty is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet
breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways Made for our searching; yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the Heaven's brink.

JOHN KEATS.

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H, a wonderful stream is the River Time,
As it flows through the realm of Tears,
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme,
And a broader sweep and a surge sublime
As it blends with the ocean of Years.

How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow
And the summers like buds between;
And the year in the sheaf-so they come and they go
On the River's breast with its ebb and flow,

As they glide in the shadow and sheen.

There's a magical Isle up the River Time Where the softest of airs are playing; There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a voice as sweet as a vesper chime,

And the Junes with the roses are staying And the name of this Isle is the Long Ago, And we bury our treasures there;

There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow-
They are heaps of dust, but we loved them so!
There are trinkets and tresses of hair.

There are fragments of song that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer,
There's a harp unswept and a lute without strings,
There are broken vows and pieces of rings,

And the garments that she used to wear.
There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore
By the mirage is lifted in air;

And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,
When the wind down the River is fair.

Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed Isle
All the day of our life till night.
And when evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing in slumber awhile,

May that "GREENWOOD" of soul be in sight.
BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR.

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