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Then gently, singly, down, down, down, they went,
And told of twenty years that I had spent
Far from my native land;—that instant came
A robin on the threshold; though so tame,
At first he looked distrustful, almost shy,
And cast on me his coal-black, stedfast eye,
And seemed to say (past friendship to renew)
Ah, ah! old worn-out soldier, is it you?'
Through the room ranged the imprisoned humble bee,
And bombed, and bounced, and struggled to be free,
Dashing against the panes with sullen roar,
That threw their diamond sunlight on the floor:
That floor, clean sanded, where my fancy strayed
O'er undulating waves the broom had made,
Reminding me of those hideous forms

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That met us as we passed the Cape of Storms,

Where high and loud they break, and peace comes never;

They roll and foam, and roll and foam for ever.

But here was peace, that peace which home can yield;
The grasshopper, the partridge in the field,
And ticking clock, were all at once become
The substitutes for clarion, fife and drum.
While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still,
On beds of moss that spread the window sill,
I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen
Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green,

VOL. III.

D

And guessed some infant hand had placed it there,
And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare.
Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose,
My heart felt every thing but calm repose;
I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years,
But rose at once, and bursted into tears;
Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again,
And thought upon the past with shame and pain;
I raved at war and all its horrid cost,

And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost;
On carnage, fire, and plunder, long I mused,
And curst the murdering weapons I had used.
Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard,
One bespoke age, and one a child's appeared;
In stepped my father, with convulsive, start,
And in an instant clasped me to his heart.
Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid,

And stooping to the child, the old man said,

. Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again,

This is your uncle Charles, come back from Spain," The child approached, and with her fingers light, : Stroked my old eyes almost deprived of sightBut why thus spin my tale, thus tedious be? Happy old soldier! what's the world to me!

Bloomfield.

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A FIELD FLOWER.

There is a flower, a little flower,

With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field

In gay but quick succession shine, Race after race their honours yield, They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to nature dear,

While moons and stars their courses run, Wreathes the whole circle of the year, Companion of the sun.

It smiles upon the lap of May,

To sultry August spreads its charms, Lights pale October on his way,

And twines December's arms.

The purple heath, and golden broom,
On moory mountains catch the gale,
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale.

But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forests, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.

Within the garden's cultured round,

It shares the sweet carnation's bed; And blooms on consecrated ground In honour of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem, The wild bee murmurs on its breast, The blue fly bends its pensile stem, Light o'er the sky-lark's nest.

'Tis Flora's page :-In every place,
In every season, fresh and fair,
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms every-where.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The rose has but a summer reign,
The daisy never dies.

THE CAPTURE OF IPSARA.

Montgomery.

Ipsara! thy glory is gone from the sea;

The dark clouds of ruin have settled on thee;
The Cross in its brightness, illumes thee no more,
And the wave rolls in blood round thy desolate shore !

Ipsara! the sons of the valiant were thine,
And they raised o'er the waters proud liberty's sign;
And the Moslem oft left on the billowy foam
The wreck of his power near their beautiful home.

And lovely thy daughters, and worthy to grace
The dwellings of Greeks who were proud of their race.
Oh! sweetly the wild hymns of freedom they sung,
When thy rocks with the music of victory rung.

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