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O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,

One to the fields, the other to the hearth,


Both have your sunshine, both, though small, are strong
At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth
To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song,

In doors and out, summer and winter mirth.

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A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound
Cries," Boatman, do not tarry,
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?"

"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle,
And this Lord Ullen's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men
Three days we 've fled together;
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen fast behind us ride, -
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?"

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight,
"I'll go, my chief,- I'm ready, -
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady!



"And, by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;

So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still, as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode arméd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O, haste thee, haste," the lady cries,
"Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,-
When, O, too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her!

And still they rowed, amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing;

Lord Ullen reached that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover;

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.


"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,
"Across this stormy water;

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,-
My daughter! O my daughter!"

'T was vain; the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing;

The waters wild went o'er his child, -
And he was left lamenting.


THOU blossom bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heavens' own blue,
That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night.

Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple dressed,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late, and com'st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue,blue,-as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.


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I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.

MY DOVES. - Miss Barrett.

My little doves have left a nest
Upon an Indian tree,

Whose leaves fantastic take their rest

Or motion from the sea;

Forever there the sea winds go,

With sunlit faces, to and fro.

The tropic flowers looked up to it,
The tropic stars looked down;
And there my little doves did sit,
With feathers softly brown;
And glittering eyes, that showed their right
To general nature's deep delight.

And God them taught, at every close

Of water far, and wind,
And lifted leaf, to interpose
Their chanting voices kind;

Interpreting that love must be
The meaning of the earth and sea.

Fit ministers! of living loves

Theirs hath the calmest sound, -
Their living voice the likest moves
To lifeless noises round, -
In such sweet monotone as clings
To music of insensate things!


My little doves were taken away
From that glad nest of theirs;
Across an ocean foaming aye,
And tempest-clouded airs.
My little doves! who lately knew

The sky and wave by warmth and blue!

And now, within the city prison
In mist and chillness pent,
With sudden upward look they listen
For sounds of past content,.
Nor lapse of water, swell of breeze,
Or nut-fruit falling from the trees!

The stir without, the glow of passion,-
The triumph of the mart,

The gold and silver's dreary clashing
With man's metallic heart,

The wheeléd pomp, the pauper tread,-
These only sounds are heard instead.

Yet still, as on my human hand
Their fearless heads they lean,
And almost seem to understand
What human musings mean,
With such a plaintive gaze their eyne
Are fastened upwardly to mine!

Their chant is soft as on the nest
Beneath the sunny sky;

For love, that stirred it in their breast,

Remains undyingly,

And, 'neath the city's shade, can keep

The well of music clear and deep.


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