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HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS.

BY SCOTT.

COUNT HAROLD gazed upon the oak
As if his eye-strings would have broke,
And then resolvedly said,-

"Be what it will yon phantom gray-
Nor heaven, nor hell, shall ever say
That for their shadows from his way

Count Harold turned dismayed:
I'll speak him, though his accents fill
My heart with that unwonted thrill-
Which vulgar minds call fear.

I will subdue it!"-Forth he strode,
Paused where the blighted oak-tree showed
Its sable shadow on the road,

And folding on his bosom broad

His arms,

said, "Speak-I hear."

I dare assure thee, that no enemy
Shall ever take alive the noble Brutus:
The Gods defend him from so great a shame!
When you do find him, or alive, or dead,
He will be found like Brutus,-like himself.

Shakespeare.

IF THOU HAST LOST A FRIEND.

BY CHARLES SWAIN.

If thou hast lost a friend,
By hard or hasty word,

Go, call him to thy heart again;
Let pride no more be heard.
Remind him of those happy days,
Too beautiful to last;

Ask, if a word should cancel years
Of truth and friendship past?
Oh! if thou'st lost a friend,
By hard or hasty word,
Go,-call him to thy heart again;
Let pride no more be heard.

Oh! tell him, from thy thought

The light of joy hath fled; That, in thy sad and silent breast, Thy lonely heart seems dead; That mount and vale,-each path ye trod, By morn or evening dim,Reproach you with their frowning gaze,

And ask your soul for him.

Then, if thou'st lost a friend,

By hard or hasty word,

Go, call him to thy heart again;

Let pride no more be heard.

FRIENDSHIP.

In companions

That do converse and waste the time together,
Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of lovee
There needs must be a like proportion
Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit

Shakespeare.

Friendship.

THE FRIENDSHIP FLOWER.

BY MILNES.

WHEN first the Friendship-flower is planted
Within the garden of your soul,
Little of care or thought are wanted
To guard its beauty fresh and whole;
But when the one empassion'd age
Has full reveal'd the magic bloom,
A wise and holy tutelage

Alone can shun the open tomb.

It is not absence you should dread,-
For absence is the very air

In which, if sound at root, the head

Shall wave most wonderful and fair;
With sympathies of joy and sorrow
Fed, as with morn and even dews,
Ideal colouring it may borrow
Richer than ever earthly hues.

But oft the plant, whose leaves unsere
Refresh the desert, hardly brooks

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