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Its light within my gloomy breast
Speaks like a second youth again,
By mine thy being is to its deep fount
Possest!

THE FERRY.

A translation from the German of UHLAND, by whom we know not, but it is extremely well executed. It appeared in the newspapers some ten or twelve years ago.

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MANY a year is in its grave

Since I pass'd this restless wave,
And the evening fair as ever
Shines on ruin, rock and river.

Then in this same boat beside
Sat two comrades old and tried;
One with all a father's truth,
One with all the fire of youth.

One on earth in silence wrought,
And his grave in silence sought;
But the younger, brighter form
Pass'd in battle and in storm.

So, where'er I turn mine eye

Back upon

the days gone by,

Sadd'ning thoughts of friends come o'er me,

Friends that closed their course before me.

But what binds us friend to friend,

'Tis that soul with soul can blend:

Soul-fraught were those hours of yore,

Let us walk in soul once more.

Take, oh boatman, thrice thy fee,

Take, I give it willingly,

For, invisible to thee,

Spirits twain have cross'd with me.

MOUNTAIN CHILDREN.

One of MARY HOWITT's delicious outpourings of overflowing love for Nature, and embodying the spirit in which she wrote in one of her many books about the country, and its manifold glories and delights. "I never bend in prayer without thanking God for having given us little children."

DWELLERS by lake and hill!

Merry companions of the bird and bee!

Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill,
With unconstrained steps and spirits free!

The sunshine and the flowers,

And the old trees that cast a solemn shade;

The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours,
And the green hills whereon your fathers play'd.

The grey and ancient peaks

Round which the silent clouds hung day and night;
And the low voice of water as it makes,

Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight.

Give

These are your joys! Go forth

your hearts up unto their mighty power; For in his spirit God has clothed the earth, And speaketh solemnly from tree and flower.

The voice of hidden rills

Its quiet way into your spirit finds;

And awfully the everlasting hills

Address you in their many-toned winds.

Ye sit upon the earth,

Twining its flowers and shouting full of glee;
And a pure mighty influence mid your mirth,
Moulds your unconscious spirits silently.

Hence is it that the lands

Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons;

Whom the world reverences. The patriot bands Were of the hills, like you, ye little ones!

Children of pleasant song

Are taught within the mountain solitudes;

For hoary regions to your wilds belong,
And yours are haunts where inspiration broods.

Then go forth-earth and sky

To you are tributary; joys are spread

Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie

In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread!

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

A quaint, but impressive poem by H. W. LONGFELLOW, an American
who enjoys a loftier reputation in Europe than in his own country.
UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a thrashing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand, he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, rejoicing,-sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earn'd a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!

MORNING HYMN IN PARADISE.

From MILTON's Paradise Lost,-the grandest Hymn ever composed by an uninspired writer.

Soon as they forth were come to open sight

Of day-spring, and the sun, scarce yet up-risen,
With wheels still hovering o'er the ocean brim,
Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began
Their orisons, each morning duly paid.

"These are thy glorious works, Parent of Good,
Almighty! thine this universal frame,

Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels! for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle His throne rejoicing; ye in heaven;

On earth join all ye creatures, to extol
Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end!
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,

If better thou belong not to the dawn,

Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou sun! of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge Him thy greater; sound His praise
In thine eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall'st.
Moon! that now meet'st the orient sun, now fliest
With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies;
And ye, those other wandering fires! that move
In mystic dance, not without song resound
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light.
Ye mists and exhalations! that now rise
From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great Author rise;
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolour'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling, still advance His praise.

His praise, ye winds! that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines !
With every plant, in sign of worship, wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow,

Melodious murmurs, warbling tune His praise.
Join voices all, ye living souls; ye
birds

That singing up to heaven-gate ascend,

Bear on your wings and in your notes His praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep,
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught His praise.
Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still
To give us only good; and, if the night
Have gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark."

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