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The City has, in name, its gates, as well;
Ald, Alders, Bishops, Norton-Fol, and Cripple;
The City has its alleys, and its courts,-
Alleys and courts named after saints and angels.
The City has its places, lanes, and squares;
Its yards, streets, markets, and its famous buildings,
Made like the rocks, to stand from age to age;
But,-unlike us,-in London the Suburban,
The City has no Roads.

But here, however,—

And round about this capital of Time ;
This mighty MOTHER CITY of the nations,
Where will you find an alley long and narrow?
No-we have Roads, wide Roads, with beauty


With gardens neat, and trim, and fair, and flowery ;
Quiet and Country-looking. Yet, even here,
There's not a Quarterday of all the four,
In any year, that does not see Removals;
And there, and then, in that event we find―


OLD letters in bundles that long since were tied,
That long time have laid out of sight,
Come forth from the places wherein ye now hide,—
Come forth once again to the light.

What words have ye yet of the young and the strong,
Ye records of pleasures and tears?

Come forth and let memory wander among
Your manifold mazes of years.

Here letters, of friendship in youth, yet remain;
But some of the friends-where are they?
As rose-leaves tho' wither'd sweet odours retain,

These leaves tell of life's early day:
They bring back the feeling of life-loving youth,

Its freedom from desolate care;

The peace and the pleasure, the trust and the truth, It then was our portion to share.

But some of the writers have written their last,
And nevermore enter our door;

They met with the tempest, and fell in the blast;
Hence letters from them come no more.
Some bosoms that heaved with affectionate breath,

Some hearts that were loving and brave, Have fallen asleep in the silence of death, And found the repose of the grave.

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Here some of the letters of love yet remain,

To tell of a time of delight,

When splendour of pleasure approaching to pain,
Ruled almost with rapture too bright.

Then the light of the look of the beautiful came,
As cometh the sun to the gloom ;-

In letters yet lingers the glow of the flame,
But the writer is laid in the tomb.

Here some of the letters of wisdom are found,
Dictated by knowledge of years;

They tell how the spirit may rise from the ground,
And soar through the songs of the spheres;
May rise to the realm of the glory divine-

To the Fountain of life, and the Throne;
But the heart that advised us by line upon line,
Lies low in the graveyard alone.

Oh! if in old letters fair lessons remain,

And call up the past from decay,

As rose-leaves tho' wither'd sweet odours retain,
To tell us in winter of May,

How then can the spirits whose teachings are here,
Be number'd with nothing but night?

They live in the land of the loved and the dear,—
They reign in the realm of delight.

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How welcome-how welcome a word of cheer!
How welcome wherever we roam!

It cometh like warble of morning clear,
To the spirit of Spring at home.

It lighteth the face with a beam of grace,
Like the smile of a bright July;
And helpeth the heart to a heavenly place,
Like that of the happy on high.

O give the well-doer a word of cheer,
And be the word willingly given;
In spirit of cheerfulness meet for the ear
Of the heart in the service of heaven.
Though the worker be weak, and it may be the soil

That calleth for culture is hard;

Yet there is not a moment of all his toil
That will not win welcome reward.

In the field of humanity, widely have seeds,
By an enemy's hand, been sown;
And culture is hindered, for vilest of weeds,
And plants bearing poison, have grown :
They breathe on the atmosphere pestilent breath,

They rob the good seed of the sun;
And O 'tis a deed of the nature of death,
That the enemy's hand hath done.





O let the well-doer have right good cheer,
Who soweth the right good seed,
And seeketh humanity's field to clear
From pestilent plant and weed;
Who toileth that bloom of the lovely and true
May widely the desert adorn

With glory that Eden the innocent knew,
Ere sin and its sorrow were born.

He loveth the grace of the snowdrop fair,
In the promising spirit of youth,

And to witness the summer of manhood bear
The bloom and the beauty of truth;

Is happy when over the fruitful plains

The riches of ripeness come,

And the angels of heaven in golden strains
Sing anthems of Harvest Home.

Then give the good worker a word of cheer,
And be the word willingly given,
In spirit of cheerfulness meet for the ear
Of the heart in the service of heaven.
Good wishes go with him who laboureth well,
Great peace with his spirit shall be;
But his honour eternity only can tell,
When from his loved labour set free.


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