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But when we turn'd her sweet unlearned eye On our own isle, she raised a joyous cry, "Oh! yes, I see it, Letty's home is there!" And while she hid all England with a kiss, Bright over Europe fell her golden hair.

1880.

2-3

MARY-A REMINISCENCE

I

SHE died in June, while yet the woodbine sprays
Waved o'er the outlet of this garden-dell;
Before the advent of these Autumn days
And dark unblossom'd verdure. As befel,
I from my window gazed, yearning to forge
Some comfort out of anguish so forlorn;
The dull rain stream'd before the bloomless

gorge,

By which, erewhile, on each less genial morn,
Our Mary pass'd, to gain her shelter'd lawn,
With Death's disastrous rose upon her cheek.
How often had I watch'd her, pale and meek,
Pacing the sward! and now I daily seek
The track, by those slow pausing footsteps worn.
How faintly worn! though trodden week by

week.

II

AND when I seek the chamber where she dwelt, Near one loved chair a well-worn spot I see, Worn by the shifting of a feeble knee

While the poor head bow'd lowly-it would melt The worldling's heart with instant sympathy: The match-box and the manual, lying there, Those sad sweet signs of wakefulness and

prayer,

Are darling tokens of the Past to me:
The little rasping sound of taper lit

At midnight, which aroused her slumbering bird:
The motion of her languid frame that stirr'd
For ease in some new posture-tho' a word
Perchance, of sudden anguish, follow'd it;
All this how often had I seen and heard!
1868.

4

HER FIRST-BORN

it was her first sweet child, her heart's delight:
And, though we all foresaw his early doom,
We kept the fearful secret out of sight;
We saw the canker, but she kiss'd the bloom.
And yet it might not be we could not brook
To vex her happy heart with vague alarms,
To blanch with fear her fond intrepid look,
Or send a thrill through those encircling arms.
She smil'd upon him, waking or at rest:

She could not dream her little child would die:
She toss'd him fondly with an upward eye:
She seem'd as buoyant as a summer spray,
That dances with a blossom on its breast,
Nor knows how soon it will be borne away.
1880.

"

5

THE LATTICE AT SUNRISE

As on my bed at dawn I mus'd and pray'd,
I saw my lattice prank'd upon the wall,
The flaunting leaves and flitting birds
withal-

A sunny phantom interlaced with shade;
Thanks be to Heaven," in happy mood I said,
"What sweeter aid my matins could befall
Than the fair glory from the East hath made?
What holy sleights hath God, the Lord of all

To bid us feel and see! we are not free

To say we see not, for the glory comes
Nightly and daily, like the flowing sea

His lustre pierceth through the midnight
glooms

And, at prime hour, behold! He follows me With golden shadows to my secret rooms.” 1864.

6.

THE HARVEST MOON

How peacefully the broad and golden moon
Comes up to gaze upon the reaper's toil!

That they who own the land for many a mile, May bless her beams, and they who take the

boon

Of scatter'd ears; oh! beautiful! how soon

The dusk is turn'd to silver without soil, Which makes the fair sheaves fairer than at

noon,

And guides the gleaner to his slender spoil;

So, to our souls, the Lord of love and might Sends harvest-hours, when daylight disappears;

When age and sorrow, like a coming night, Darken our field of work with doubts and fears,

He times the presence of His heavenly light
To rise up softly o'er our silver hairs.

1873.

Charles Tennyson Turner.

THE NEW WORLD

THE night that has no star lit up by God, The day that round men shines who still are blind,

The earth their grave-turned feet for ages trod And sea swept over by His mighty wind,All these have passed away, the melting dream That flitted o'er the sleeper's half-shut eye, When touched by morning's golden-darting beam;

And he beholds around the earth and sky That ever real stands, the rolling shores And heaving billows of the boundless main, That show, though time is past, no trace of

years.

And earth restored he sees as his again,
The earth that fades not and the heavens

that stand,

Their strong foundations laid by God's right hand.

1839.

Jones Very

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