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"Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying."

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;

Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. "What's that noise that I hear at the window, 1 wonder?"

"'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under." "What makes you be shoving and moving your stool

on,

And singing all wrong that old song of The Coolun?'"

There's a form at the casement-the form of her true

love;

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers,
Steals up from her seat, longs to go-and yet lingers;
A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother,
Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the
other.

Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round;
Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound.
Noiseless and light to the lattice above her
The maid steps-then leaps to the arms of her lover.
Slower-and slower- and slower the wheel swings;
Lower-and lower- and lower the reel rings.
Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and
moving,

Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving.

JOHN FRANCIS WALLER.

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FRANK explanations with friends in case of affronts, sometimes save a perishing friendship, and even place it on a firmer basis than at first; but secret discontentment always ends badly.

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LOVE would put a new face on this dreary old world in which we dwell as pagans and enemies too long; and it would warm the heart to see how fast the vain diplomacy of statesmen, the impotence of armies and navies and lines of defense, would be superseded by this unarmed child.

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How came we through the yielding wood,

That day, to this sweet-rustling shore?
Oh! there together while we stood,
A butterfly was wafted o'er.

In sleepy light; and even now

His glimmering beauty doth return Upon me when the soft winds blow,

And lilies toward the sunlight yearn.

The yielding wood? And yet 'twas loth
To yield unto our happy march;
Doubtful it seemed, at times, if both
Could pass
its green, elastic arch.

Yet there, at last, upon the marge
We found ourselves, and there, behold,
In hosts the lilies, white and large,
Lay close with hearts of downy gold!

Deep in the weedy waters spread

The rootlets of the placid bloom:

So sprung my love's flower, that was bred
In deep still waters of heart's-gloom.
So sprung; and so that morn was nursed
To live in light, and on the pool
Wherein its roots were deep immersed
Burst into beauty broad and cool.

Few words were said, as moments passed;
I know not how it came- that awe
And ardor of a glance that cast
Our love in universal law.

But all at once a bird sang loud,

From dead twigs of the gleamy beech;
His notes dropped dewy, as from a cloud,
A blessing on our married speech.

Ah, Love! how fresh and rare, even now,
That moment and that mood return
Upon me, when the soft winds blow,
And lilies toward the sunlight yearn!
GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.

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CULTIVATE a spirit of love. Love is the diamond amongst the jewels of the believer's breastplate. The other graces shine like the precious stones of nature, with their own peculiar lustre, and various hues; now in white all the colors are united, so in love is centred every other grace and virtue; love is the fulfilling of the law.

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