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I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled,

Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed !
Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.


THOSE EVENING BELLS. Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! How many a tale their music tells, Of youth, and home, and that sweet time, When last I heard their soothing chime.

Those joyous hours are passed away; And many a heart, that then was gay, Within the tomb now darkly dwells, And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 'twill be when I am gone ; That tuneful peal will still ring on, While other bards shall walk these dells, And sing your praise, sweet evrening bells !



Peace be around thee, wherever thou rov'st;

May life be for thee one summer's day, And all that thou wishest, and all that thou

lov'st, Come smiling around thy sunny way! If sorrow e'er this calm should break,

May even thy tears pass off so lightly, Like spring-showers, they'll only make

The smiles that follow shine more brightly.

May Time, who sheds his blight o'er all,

And daily dooms some joy to death, O'er thee let years so gently fall,

They shall not crush one flower beneath.
As half in shade and half in sun

This world along its path advances,
May that side the sun's upon,
Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances !


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But who the melodies of morn can tell ?
The wild brook babbling down the mountain

The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried
In the lone valley; echoing far and wide
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide ;

The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal


The cottage-curs at early pilgrims bark ; Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid

sings : The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and

hark ! Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon

rings; Through rustling corn the hare astonished

springs; Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour ; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ;

Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower ! And shrill lark carols from her aërial tower.






Lo, the lilies of the field,
How their leaves instruction yield !
Hark to Nature's lesson, given
By the blessed birds of heaven ;
Every bush and tufted tree
Warbles sweet philosophy:
“Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow,
God provideth for the morrow !

“ Say, with richer crimson glows
The kingly mantle than the rose ?
Say, have kings more wholesome fare
Than we poor citizens of air ?
Barns, nor hoarded grain have we,
Yet we carol merrily.
Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow,
God provideth for the morrow!

“One there lives, whose guardian eye
Guides our humble destiny:
One there lives, who, Lord of all,
Keeps our feathers, lest they fall.
Pass we blithely then the time,
Fearless of the snare and lime,
Free from doubt and faithless sorrow;
God provideth for the morrow !”

Reginald Heber


Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time;
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Anne's our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast;
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

Why should we yet our sail unfurl ?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl ;
But when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

Utawa's tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon :
Saint of this green isle ! hear our prayers,
Oh! grant us cool heavens, and favouring airs !
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.


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