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Low thoughts had there no place; yet was his heart

Lowly; for he was meek in gratitude,

Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind,

And whence they flowed; and from them he acquired Wisdom, which works through patience; thence he

learned,

In many a calmer hour of sober thought,
To look on Nature with an humble heart,
Self-questioned where he did not understand,
And with a reverential eye of love.

Night.

WORDSWORTH.

HE night is chill; the forest bare;

Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl

From the lovely lady's cheek;
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
S. T. COLERIDGE. [From "Christabel."]

The Mother and Child.

ER by her smile how soon the stranger knows !

How soon by this the glad discovery shows !
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy,
What answering looks of sympathy and joy !

He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard,
And ever, ever to her lap he flies,
When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise.
Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her flung,
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue,)
As with soft accents round her neck he clings,
And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings,
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart,
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart,
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove,
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!

But soon a nobler task demands her care ; Apart she joins his little hands in prayer, Telling of Him who sees in secret there. And now the volume on her knee has caught His wand'ring eye—now many a written thought Never to die, with many a lisping sweet His moving murm’ring lips endeavour to repeat.

Released, he chases the bright butterfly ;
Oh, he would follow-follow through the sky !
Climbs the gaunt mastiff slumbering in his chain,

70

THE MOTHER AND CHILD.

And chides, and buffets, clinging by the mane!
Then runs, and kneeling by the fountain-side,
Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide,
A dangerous voyage! or, if now he can,
If now he wears the habit of a man,

Flings off the coat so long his pride and pleasure,
And, like a miser digging for his treasure,
His tiny spade in his own garden plies,

And in green letters sees his name arise!
Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight,
She looks, and looks, and still with new delight.

SAMUEL ROgers.

[The name of SAMUEL ROGERS, the banker-poet, recalls several successive generations of literary celebrities. Born in 1762, he entered the field of letters while the great "Doctor" still towered on his throne as the Grand Cham of literature, and he survived till 1855, almost seventy years after the production of his first collection of poems, which were published in 1786, the year in which Robert Burns first appeared as an author. Rogers is not a very prolific writer; and his poems are rather remarkable for grace and polish of diction, than for innate power. His best work, the “Italy,” was published in 1822. Rogers will long be remembered as a kind patron of his less fortunate compeers in literature and art; his great wealth giving him opportunities of doing good, of which he availed himself in no stinted measure. Many have cause to remember him with gratitude.]

I Garden.

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HE finished garden

to the view Its vistas opens, and its valleys green Snatched through the ver

dant maze, the hurried

eye Distracted wanders: now

the bowery walk Of covert close, where

scarce a speck of day Falls on the lengthened

gloom, protracted sweeps; Now meets the bended sky;

the river now Dimpling along the breezy

ruffled lake, Theforest darkeninground,

the glittering spire, Th'ethereal mountain, and

the distant main. But why so far excursive?

when at hand, Along these blushing bor

ders, bright with dew, And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers, Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace ; Throws out the snow-drop and the crocus first;

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The daisy, primrose; violet, darkly blue ;
And polyanthus, of unnumbered dyes;
The yellow wall-flower, stained with iron brown,
And lavish stock, that scents the garden round ;
From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed,
Anemones, auriculas, enriched

With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves;
And full ranunculus, of glowing red.

Then comes the tulip race, where Beauty plays
Her idle freaks; from family diffused

To family, as flies the father dust,

The varied colours run, and while they break
On the charmed eye, th' exulting florist marks,
With secret pride, the wonders of his hand.
No gradual bloom is wanting from the bud,
First-born of Spring, to Summer's musky tribes :
Nor hyacinths, of purest virgin white,
Low-bent, and blushing inward; nor jonquils,
Of potent fragrance; nor Narcissus fair,

As o'er the fabled fountain hanging still ;
Nor broad carnations, nor gay spotted pinks;
Nor, showered from every bush, the damask rose.
Infinite numbers, delicacies, smells,

With hues on hues expression cannot paint,
The breath of Nature, and her endless bloom.

THOMSON.

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