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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

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May Pity come, Love's sister-spirit, there!

May they shun baseness as they shun the grave!

May they be frugal, pious, humble, brave!

Sweet peace be theirs - the moonlight of the breast

And occupation, and alternate rest;
And dear to care and thought the usual

walk;

Theirs be no flower that withers on the stalk,

But roses cropp'd, that shall not bloom in vain;

And hope's bless'd sun, that sets to rise again.

Be chaste their nuptial bed, their home be sweet,

Their floor resound the tread of little feet;

Bless'd beyond fear and fate, if bless'd by thee,

And heirs, O Love! of thine Eternity.

LOVE STRONG IN DEATH.
WE watch'd him, while the moonlight,
Beneath the shadow'd hill,
Seem'd dreaming of good angels,
And all the woods were still.
The brother of two sisters

Drew painfully his breath:

A strange fear had come o'er him,
For love was strong in death.
The fire of fatal fever

Burn'd darkly on his cheek,

And often to his mother
He spoke, or tried to speak:
"I felt as if from slumber

I never could awake:
Oh, Mother, give me something
To cherish for your sake!
A cold, dead weight is on me-
A heavy weight, like lead:
My hands and feet seem sinking
Quite through my little bed:
I am so tired, so weary -

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."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. “Nay, not so,"

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

But cheerly still;

and said, "I pray

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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

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