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LINES WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND GLEN.
The violet by the mossed gray stone
Hath laid her weary head;
In all thy beauteous power,
And boyhood's blossomy hour.
Thou bidd'st me be a boy,
In freedom and in joy.
LINES WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND GLEN. – Wilson.
To whom belongs this valley fair,
That streamlet's murmuring !
The heavens appear to love this vale;
Or 'mid the silence lie!
Seems bound unto the sky.
O, that this lovely vale were mine!
My years would gently glide;
By peace be sanctified.
There would unto my soul be given,
A piety sublime !
Eternity of time!
And did I ask to whom belonged
Nature's most gracious soul!
Are joint heirs of the whole!
Yea, long as Nature's humblest child
By sinful sacrifice;
Is built amid the skies!
THE EVENING RAINBOW.- Southey.
Mild arch of promise! on the evening sky
Thou shinest fair, with many a lovely ray,
Such is the smile that piety bestows
BOOK OF THE WORLD. — Drummond.
Of this fair volume which we “ World” do name,
THE SKYLARK. – Hogg.
Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place, — 0, to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay, and loud,
Far in the downy cloud,
Where, on the dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O'er fell and fountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing away!
Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather-blooms Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place, 0, to abide in the desert with thee!
TO DAFFODILS.- Herrick.*
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
Will go with you along !
We have short time to stay, as you;
Ne'er to be found again.
THE HERMIT. – Beatlie.
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove; 'T was then, by the cave of the mountain reclined,
A hermit his nightly complaint thus began; Though mournful his numbers, his soul was resigned;
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.
6 Ah! why thus abandoned to darkness and woe,
Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain ? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet, if pity inspire thee, O, cease not thy lay! Mourn, sweetest companion ! man calls thee to
mourn; O, soothe hiin, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away,
Full quickly they pass, but they never return !