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HERE were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble val leys, whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; meadows, enamelled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers; thickets, which being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so too, by the cheerful disposition of many welltuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep, feeding with sober security; while the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dam's comfort; here a shepherd's boy piping, as though he should never be old; there a young shepherdess knitting, and withal singing; and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voicemusic. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

REFLECTION.

'Many are the thoughts that come

to me,

In my lonely musing,

And they drift se strange and swift

There's no time for choosing

Which to follow, for to leave
Any, seems a losing."

GRANCH.

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LOVE the old melodious lays That softly melt the ages through, The songs of Spenser's golden days, Arcadian Sidney's silvery phrase, Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dew.

Yet, vainly in my quiet hours

To breathe their marvelous notes I try:
I feel them as the leaves and flowers
In silence feel the dewy showers,

And drink with glad still lips the blessing of the sky.

The rigor of a frozen clime,

The harshness of an untaught ear,

The jarring words of one whose rhyme
Beat often Labor's hurried time,

Or Duty's rugged march through storm and strife, are here...

Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace,
No rounded art the lack supplies;

Unskilled the subtile lines to trace,
Or softer shades of Nature's face,

I view her common forms with unanointed

eyes.

Nor mine the seer-like power to show The secrets of the heart and mind;

To drop the plummet-line below Our common world of joy and woe, A more intense despair or brighter hope to find.

Yet here at least an earnest sense

Of human right and weal is shown;
A hate of tyranny intense

And hearty in its vehemence,

As if my brother's pain and sorrow were my

own.

O Freedom! if to me belong

Nor mighty Milton's gift divine,

Nor Marvell's wit and graceful song, Still with a love as deep and strong As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on thy shrine!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

"THE SUNRISE NEVER FAILED US YET."

JPON the sadness of the sea

The sunset broods regretfully;

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A

PAIN IN PLEASURE.

THOUGHT lay like a flower upon mine heart,

And drew around it other thoughts, like bees

For multitude and thirst of sweetnesses; Whereat rejoicing, I desired the art

My soul, so always. Foolish counterpart
Of a weak man's vain wishes! While I spoke,
The thought I called a flower grew nettle-
rough;

The thoughts called bees stung me to fester-
ing.

Of the Greek whistler, who to wharf and Oh, entertain, cried Reason, as she woke,

mart

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Your best and gladdest thoughts but long

enough,

And they will all prove sad enough to sting!

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

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