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Woo her when, with rosy blush,

Summer eve is sinking;
When, on rills that softly gush,

Stars are softly winking;
When, through boughs that knit the bower,

Moonlight gleams are stealing;
Woo her, till the gentle hour

Wake a gentler feeling.

Woo her, when autumnal dyes

Tinge the woody mountain ;
When the dropping foliage lies,

In the weedy fountain ;
Let the scene, that tells how fast

Youth is passing over,
Warn her, ere her bloom is past,

To secure her lover.

Woo her, when the northwinds call

At the lattice nightly;
When, within the cheerful hall,

Blaze the fagots brightly;
While the wintry tempest round

Sweeps the landscape hoary, Sweeter in her ear shall sound

Love's delightful story.



" The world is too much with us."-WORDSWORTH.

Go forth into the fields,
Ye denizens of the pent city's mart!
Go forth, and know the gladness nature yields

To the care-wearied heart.

Leave ye the feverish strife,
The jostling, eager, self-devoted throng:
Ten thousand voices, waked anew to life,

Call you with sweetest song.

Hark! from each fresh-clad bough,
Or blissful soaring in the golden air,
Bright birds, with joyous music, bid you now

To spring's loved haunts repair.

The silvery gleaming rills
Lure with soft murmurs from the grassy lea ;
Or gaily dancing down the sunny hills,

Call loudly in their glee!



And the young, wanton breeze, With breath all odorous from her blossomy chase, In voice low whispering, 'mong the embowering trees,

Woos you to her embrace.

Go-breathe the air of heaven,
Where violets meekly smile upon your way;
Or on some pine-crowned summit, tempest riven,

Your wandering footsteps stray.

Seek ye the solemn wood,
Whose giant trunks a verdant roof uprear,
And listen, while the roar of some far flood

Thrills the young leaves with fear!

Stand by the tranquil lake,
Sleeping mid willowy banks of emerald dye,
Save when the wild bird's wing its surface break

Chequering the mirrored sky

And if within your breast,
Hallowed to Nature's touch one chord remain ;
If aught save worldly honours find you blest,

Or hope of sordid gain ;

A strange delight shall thrill,
A quiet joy brood o'er you like a dove;

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Earth's placid beauty shall your bosom fill,

Stirring its depths with love.

0, in the calm, still hours, The holy Sabbath hours, when sleeps the air, And heaven and earth, decked with her beauteous flowers,

Lie hushed in breathless prayer,

Pass ye the proud fane by,
The vaulted aisles, by flaunting folly trod,
And, 'neath the temple of the uplifted sky,

Go forth, and worship God !



'Tis summer's eve. The winds are still ;

So calmly hushed the waters lie, So softly bright, they seem to blend

In airy distance with the sky.



What hues of gorgeous beauty, o'er

Morea's hills and mountains rolled,
Their summits veil! where sinks the sun,

A monarch to his couch of gold.
From them I turn; from isles, along

Whose wild and lofty summits driven, The rosy twilight lingers, till

They seem to melt and blend with Heaven :Turn to the ruin, lone and dim,

That bears the name, and should have crowned The dust of him,* the spirit of

Whose song, though mute, is breathed around. Minstrel ! the thrilling summons of

Whose lyre the men of Greece obeyedSoldier ! whose charge had freed them, ere

His hand had sheathed her battle-blade! Here should his relics rest, beside

This time-worn column, gray and rent; His name, his epitaph; the stone,

Whereon 'tis graved, his monument.

* Byron, whose name is inscribed on one of the columna.

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