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(Mr. C. repeats.)

DAY. “ In the barn the tenant cock,

Close to partlet perch'd on high, Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock,) Jocund that the morning's nigh. Swiftly from the mountain's brow Shadows nurs'd by night retire, And the peeping sun-beam now Paints with gold the village spire. From the low-roofd cottage ridge See the chattering swallow spring; Darting through the one-arch'd bridge Quick she dips her dappled wing. Now the pine-tree's waving top Gently greets the morning gale ; Kidlings now begin to crop Daisies in the dewy vale.”

NOON.
“ Fervid on the glittering flood

Now the noon-tide radiance glows:
Drooping o'er its infant bud
Not a dew-drop's left the rose.
By the brook the shepherd dines,
From the fierce meridian heat
Shelter'd by the branching pines
Pendant o'er his grassy seat.

Now the flock forsakes the glade,
Where uncheck'd the sun-beams fall,
Sure to find a pleasing shade
By the ivy'd abbey wall.
Echo in her airy round
O’er the river, rock, and hill,
Cannot catch a single sound
Save the clack of yonder mill.
Cattle court the zephyrs bland
Where the streainlet wanders cool;
Or with languid silence stand
Midway in the marshy pool.
Not a leaf has leave to stir;
Nature's lull’d-serene—and still;
Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur,
Sleeping on the heath-clad hill.
Languid is the landscape round,
Till the fresh descending shower,
Grateful to the thirsty ground,
Raises ev'ry fainting flower.
Now the hill-the hedge-is green,
Now the warbler's throat's in tune!
Blithsome is the verdant scene
Brighten'd by the beams of noon.”

EVENING.
O'er the heath the heifer strays

Free-(the furrow'd task is done)

Now the village windows blaze,
Barnish'd by the setting sun.
Now he hides behind the hill,
Sinking from a golden sky;
Can the pencil's mimic skill
Copy the refulgent dye ?
Trudging as the ploughmen go,
(To the smoky hamlet bound,)
Giant-like their shadows grow,
Lengthen'd o'er the level ground.
Where the rising forest spreads
Shelter for the lordly dome,
To their high-built airy beds
See the rooks returning home!
Now the hermit owlet peeps
From the barn or twisted brake,
And the blue mist slowly creeps
Curling on the silver lake!
As the trout in speckled pride
Playful from its bosom springs
To the banks, a ruffled tide
Verges in successive rings.
Tripping through the silken grass
O’er the path-divided dale
Mark the blithe and rosy lass
With her well-poised milking pail.
Linnets with unnumber'd notes,
And the cuckoo bird, with two,
Tuning sweet their mellow throats,
Bid the setting sun adieu.”

Clara had several brothers, but Maurice, the youngest of them, was the only one educated under the paternal roof. From the habitual arrangement of the hours devoted to study, it frequently happened that his sisters and young companions were engaged with their pursuits at the very time that he was at leisure for recreation; and although he would often devote that period to drawing, or reading, or whatever seemed calculated to enlarge his store of useful knowledge, he would also occasionally employ it in such relaxations as required ingenuity and invention. One of his most favourite amusements, however, was that of assuming to himself the name of some distinguished general or of some illustrious hero, and, with a stick in his hand, marching up and down the shrubbery walk declaiming at the same time in the most energetic manner, and with an air of dignified gravity maintaining the character of the hero or warrior whose name he bore. Sometimes he was Cyrus immortalizing himself by heroic actions and great achievements ; sometimes Hannibal, crossing the Alps, and urging his troops to the defeat of the Romans ; at others he was Xerxes crossing the Hellespont with his ten hundred thousand men, or a North American warrior with his helmet of rushes and his arrows of willow. Once he stationed himself among some rock-work upon the side of an eminence in his father's garden, in order, as he said, to personify Homer, who it is reported used to seat himself in the hollow of a rock, (at a few miles' distance from

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