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His teachers were the torn hearts' wail, Oh, shoreless Deep, where no wind

The tyrant and the slave,

The street, the factory, the jail,

The palace and the grave!

The meanest thing, earth's feeblest

worm,

He feared to scorn or hate;

And honored in a peasant's form
The equal of the great.

But if he loved the rich who make
The poor man's little more,

Ill could he praise the rich who take
From plundered labor's store.
A hand to do, a head to plan,

A heart to feel and dare -
Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man
Who drew them as they are.

PLAINT.

DARK, deep, and cold the current flows Unto the sea where no wind blows, Seeking the land which no one knows.

O'er its sad gloom still comes and goes The mingled wail of friends and foes, Borne to the land which no one knows.

Why shrieks for help yon wretch, who goes

blows!

And, thou, oh Land which no one

knows!

That God is All, His shadow shows.

THE HAPPY LOT.

BLESS'D is the hearth where daughters gird the fire,

And sons that shall be happier than their sire,

Who sees them crowd around his evening chair,

While love and hope inspire his wordless prayer.

Oh, from their home paternal may they

go,

With little to unlearn, though much to know!

Them, may no poison'd tongue, no evil eye,

Curse for the virtues that refuse to die; The generous heart, the independent

mind,

Till truth, like falsehood, leaves a sting behind!

May temperance crown their feast, and friendship share!

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With weariness I ache:
Oh, Mother, give me something
To cherish for your sake!
Some little token give me,

Which I may kiss in sleep
To make me feel I'm near you,
And bless you though I weep.
My sisters say I'm better-

But, then, their heads they shake:
Oh, Mother, give me something
To cherish for your sake!
Why can't I see the poplar,

The moonlit stream and hill, Where, Fanny says, good angels

Dream, when the woods are still? Why can't I see you, Mother? I surely am awake: Oh, haste! and give me something To cherish for your sake!" His little bosom heaves not;

The fire hath left his cheek;
The fine chord - is it broken?
The strong chord - could it break?
Ah, yes! the loving spirit

Hath wing'd his flight away:
A mother and two sisters
Look down on lifeless clay.

LEIGH HUNT.

1784-1859.

[BORN at Southgate, Middlesex, October 19, 1784; was educated at Christ's Hospital; contributed to various periodicals; was an editor of The Examiner, 1808; was imprisoned for libel on the Prince Regent, 1811; visited Byron and Shelley in Italy, 1822; received a pension from the Crown, 1847: died August 28, 1859. Besides many works in prose, he published Juvenilia, 1801; The Feast of the Poets, 1814; The Descent of Liberty, A Mask, 1815; The Story of Rimini, 1816; Foliage, 1818; Poetical Works, 1832: Captain Sword and Captain Pen, 1835; A Legend of Florence, 1840; The Palfrey, 1842; Stories in Verse, 1855. For the bibliography of Leigh Hunt see "List of the Writings of William Hazlitt and Leigh Hunt, chronologically arranged with notes, &c., by Alexander Ireland,” 1868.]

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE

ANGEL.

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase)

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

And saw, within the moonlight in his

room,

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem
bold,

And to the presence in the room he
said,

"What writest thou?"-The vision raised its head,

And, with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, "The names of those who

love the Lord."

MORNING AT RAVENNA.

'Tis morn, and never did a lovelier
day

Salute Ravenna from its leafy bay:
For a warm eve, and gentle rains at
night,

Have left a sparkling welcome for the
light,

And April, with his white hands wet with flowers,

Dazzles the bride-maids looking from the towers:

Green vineyards and fair orchards, far and near,

Glitter with drops, and heaven is sapphire clear,

And the lark rings it, and the pine trees glow,

And odors from the citrons come and go,

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, And all the landscape — earth, and sky,

not so,"

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

But cheerly still; and said, "I pray

thee, then,

Write me as one that loves his fellowmen."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

and sea

Breathes like a bright-eyed face that laughs out openly.

The seats with boughs are shaded from above

Of bays and roses - trees of wit and love;

And in the midst, fresh whistling through the scene,

It came again with a great wakening The lightsome fountain starts from out light,

And showed the names whom love of
God had blessed,

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the
rest.

the green,

Clear and compact, till, at its height o'errun,

It shakes its loosening silver in the

sun.

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JOHN WILSON

(CHRISTOPHER NORTH).

1785-1854.

[BORN at Paisley. An eminent Scotch poet and essayist, who received his education at Oxford. After putting forth some minor lyrical attempts, he published in 1812 The Isle of Patmos, which was well received. In 1816, he produced The City of the Plague; in 1820 was nominated to the chair of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh. In 1825 he began the celebrated Noctes Ambrosiana under the name of Christopher North. He also wrote numerous political articles and literary criticisms for Blackwood's Magazine, which was started as an outlet for Scottish Toryism. Died at Edinburgh in 1854.]

THE SABBATH-DAY.

WHEN by God's inward light, a happy child,

I walk'd in joy, as in the open air, It seem'd to my young thought the Sabbath smiled

With glory and with love. So still, so fair,

The heavens look'd ever on that hallow'd morn,

That, without aid of memory, something there

Had surely told me of its glad return. How did my little heart at evening burn, When, fondly seated on my father's knee,

Taught by the lip of love, I breathed the prayer,

Warm from the fount of infant piety! Much is my spirit changed; for years have brought

Intenser feeling and expanded thought; Yet, must I envy every child I see!

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Like that of dreamer murmuring in his

sleep;

'Tis partly the billow, and partly the air That lies like a garment floating fair Above the happy deep.

The sea, I ween, cannot be fann'd
By evening freshness from the land,
For the land it is far away;

But God hath will'd that the sky-born

breeze

In the centre of the loneliest seas
Should ever sport and play.
The mighty Moon she sits above,
Encircled with a zone of love,
A zone of dim and tender light
That makes her wakeful eye more
bright:

She seems to shine with a sunny ray, And the night looks like a mellow'd day!

The gracious Mistress of the Main
Hath now an undisturbèd reign,
And from her silent throne looks down,
As upon children of her own,

On the waves that lend their gentle

breast

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