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By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee.
The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls
To mingle in this heavenly harmony.

Why is it that I linger round this tomb? What holds it? Dust that cumber'd those I mourn. aside earth's robes,

They shook it off, and laid
And put on those of light. They're gone to dwell
In love their God's and angels'. Mutual love,
That bound them here, no longer needs a speech
For full communion; nor sensations strong,
Within the breast, their prison, strive in vain
To be set free, and meet their kind in joy.
Changed to celestials, thoughts that rise in each,
By natures new, impart themselves, though silent.
Each quick'ning sense, each throb of holy love,
Affections sanctified, and the full glow
Of being, which expand and gladden one,

By union all mysterious, thrill and live
In both immortal frames: Sensation all,

And thought, pervading, mingling sense and thought! Ye pair'd, yet one! wrapped in a consciousness Twofold, yet single-this is love, this life!

Why call we, then, the square-built monument,
The upright column, and the low-laid slab,
Tokens of death, memorials of decay?
Stand in this solemn, still assembly, man,
And learn thy proper nature; for thou see'st,
In these shaped stones and letter'd tables, figures
Of life: More are they to thy soul than those
Which he who talk'd on Sinai's mount with God
Brought to the old Judeans-types are these,
Of thine eternity.

I thank thee, Father,
That at this simple grave, on which the dawn
Is breaking, emblem of that day which hath
No close, Thou kindly unto my dark mind
Hast sent a sacred light, and that away
From this green hillock, whither I had come
In sorrow, Thou art leading me in joy.

A CLUMP OF DAISIES.

YE daisies gay,

This fresh spring day
Close gathered here together,

To play in the light,

To sleep all the night,

To abide through the sullen weather;

Ye creatures bland,

A simple band,

Ye free ones, linked in pleasure,

And linked when your forms

Stoop low in the storms,

And the rain comes down without measure;

When wild clouds fly
Athwart the sky,

And ghostly shadows, glancing,

Are darkening the gleam

Of the hurrying stream,

And your close, bright heads gayly dancing;

Though dull awhile,
Again ye smile;

For, see, the warm sun breaking;
The stream's going glad,
There's nothing now sad,

And the small bird his song is waking.

The dew-drop sip

With dainty lip!

The sun is low descended.

And, Moon! softly fall

On troop true and small!

Sky and earth in one kindly blended.

And, Morning! spread
Their jewelled bed

With lights in the east sky springing!
And, Brook! breathe around

Thy low murmured sound!

May they move, ye Birds, to your singing!

For in their play

I hear them say,

Here, man, thy wisdom borrow :

In heart be a child,

In word, true and mild:

Hold thy faith, come joy, or come sorrow.

WOODWORTH.

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view;

The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew;
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it.
The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure;

For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As, pois'd on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though fill'd with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now far removed from the loved situation,

The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in his well.

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THE sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,
In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet;

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