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Asks about the distance,
Says it's tiresome talking,
Noisés of the cars

Are so very shocking!

Market woman, careful
Of the precious casket,
Knowing eggs are eggs,
Tightly holds her basket;
Feeling that a smash,
If it came, would surely
Send her eggs to pot,
Rather prematurely.

Singing through the forests,
Rattling over ridges,
Shooting under arches,

Rumbling over bridges ;

Whizzing through the mountains,

Buzzing o'er the vale

Bless me! this is pleasant,
Riding on the rail!

Ex. XV.- THE HOUR OF DEATH.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

FELICIA HEMANS.

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,

And stars to set—but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer— But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power,

A time for softer tears-but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee-but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer birds from far shall cross the sea,

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grainBut who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our path grow pale?—
They have one season—all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth-and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death!

Ex. XVI.-DEATH OF ORISKA.

L. H. SIGOURNE

WHO is yon woman in her dark canoe,
Who strangely toward Niagara's fearful gulf
Floats on unmoved?

Firm and erect she stands,
Clad in such bridal costume as befits
The daughter of a king. Tall, radiant plumes
Wave o'er her forehead, and the scarlet tinge
Of her embroidered mantle, flecked with gold,
Dazzles amid the flood. Scarce heaves her breast,
As though the spirit of that dread abyss,

In terrible sublimity, had quelled

All thought of earthly things.

Fast by her side

Stands a young, wondering boy, and from his lips,

Half bleached with terror, steals the frequent sound Of "Mother! Mother!"

But she answereth not;

She speaks no more to aught of earth, but pours
To the Great Spirit, fitfully and wild,
The death-song of her people. High it rose
Above the tumult of the tide that bore
The victims to their doom. The boy beheld
The strange, stern beauty in his mother's eye,
And held his breath with awe.

Her song grew faint,—
And as the rapids raised their whitening heads,
Casting her light oar to the infuriate tide,

She raised him in her arms, and clasped him close.
Then as the boat with arrowy swiftness drove

On toward the unfathomed gulf, and the chill spray
Rose up in blinding showers, he hid his head

Deep in the bosom that had nurtured him,

With a low, stifled sob.

And thus they took

Their awful pathway to eternity.

One ripple on the mighty river's brink,

Just when it, shuddering, makes its own dread plunge, And at the foot of this most dire abyss

One flitting gleam-bright robe-and raven tress—

And feathery coronet-and all was o'er,

Save the deep thunder of the eternal surge
Sounding their epitaph!

Ex. XVII.-LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry."

CAMPBELL.

"Now, who be ye would cross Loch-Gyle,

This dark and stormy water ?"

"O, I'm the chief of Ülva's isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men,
Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover?"

Out spoke the hardy, Highland wight,
"I'll go, my chief, I'm ready;
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:

"And, by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry;

So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this, the storm grew loud арасе, The water-wraith was shrieking; And, in the scowl of heaven, each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still, as wilder grew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode arméd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.”

The boat has left the stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,

When oh! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed against the roar Of waters, fast prevailing;

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover,

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,
"Across this stormy water,

And I'll forgive your Highland chief;
My daughter! oh, my daughter!"

'T was vain: the loud waves dashed the shore,
Return, or aid preventing:

The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.

Ex. XVIII.-TO THE EVENING WIND.

SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding, all day, the wild blue waves till now,

WM. C. BRYANT.

Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee

To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!

Nor I alone,—a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fullness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth, into the gathering shade; go forth,
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,

Curl the still waters, bright with stars; and rouse
The wide old wood from his majestic rest,
Summoning from the innumerable boughs
The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast;
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,
And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass.

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