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The morrow brought him; but then he
To speak his part deferr'd,
While she declared in gladness free,
How God her prayer had heard.

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'Nay! it was I!" said he, in haste, For, listening at your door, Expecting this to hear, I placed

The crown upon the floor!"

She answer'd—“ Why, it came like dew,—
Nought coming to prevent it;

And though 't was brought to me by you,

“Thanks that you brought it,—be it so;
Each channel bears a name;
But then the fair refreshing flow,
God sendeth all the same."


DEEP the water in the hollow on the hill-
Deep and lone;

Wild the wind as if directed by no will,
Save its own;

There, at midnight dark and dreary,
Came a woman weak and weary,

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Yet hope-aided o'er the moor;
For, another mile pass'd over,
She would happily discover

Welcome waiting at her door;
But the wind, as if directed by no will
Save its own,

Travell'd howling o'er the tempest-troubled hill,

Wild and lone!

In the valley, full a mile off, lay the town,—

But it slept;

Save where topers, at the wakeful "Rose and Crown,"

Revel kept:
Thence, and for a wager, started
Forth a horseman, lion-hearted,

To the hollow on the hill:
Tho' by gloom and storm surrounded,
Fleeter than the wind he bounded,

As the horse had own'd his will!
Knew he what his midnight gallop to the hill

Well could mean?
Answer,—cry of woe and terror, wild and shrill ;—

Hark! the scream!

To the water in the hollow on the hill,

Deep and lone;

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Will the death-devoted woman, cold and still,
Down have gone?

No! the gallop in the distance

Sounded "God has sent assistance;"

How the murder-meaners fled!

While the horseman brought the woman,
Whom banditti on the common

Else had left alone, and dead.

For a wager! did the rider, proud of skill,
Dare the strife?
Say it not, for God had sent him to the hill,



What are they like? What is the sunshine like,
That wakes the snowdrop in the vernal morn,
And calls the lark aloft into the cloud
That it has glorified? What are they like?
What is the soft gale like, that gently comes
From the fair realm where winter never went
Telling to shuddering hearers tales of storm?
What are they like, and how much do they cost?
What is the wayside well like, pure and cool,
Unto the thirsty and wayfaring man,
And how much costs the crystal stream to him?
For they resemble much the pleasants words-


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THERE's music in the words,

That warbles in the breast,
Like seraphs touching joyful chords
To harmonies of rest.

There's pleasure in the tone,
Sweet as the smile of love;
Akin to that by sp.rits known,
In the blest home above.

There's glory in the sound;

It biddeth gloom retire;
And lighteth life with gladness round,
As rooms are lit with fire.

The words are words of wealth,
Of grace and ripe regard;
Of light, and liberty, and health;
Of glory and reward!

And when it comes to this,

That death obscures the sun;
The words that wed the soul to bliss,
Are the good words-" Well done!"

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There's music in the words;
The melody of rest;
A seraph hand among the chords
That charm the ever blest.


WHEN life is gilded with the gold of hope;
When hope is lustrous with the light of promise,
And promise is an orb of glorious truth,
Set for our sakes in the delightful sky,
Joy must be there.


O! the dark ragged looks,
Put on because the wearer is put out-
Out of the pleasant palace of good-temper,
Are most distressing wear! But why put out?
And why disgrace the fair immortal mind
With wretched raiment patched of grief or rage,
Inwardly vainly hiding?

There is joy,
Yea in this so-called shadow-vale of tears,
That may be had for asking. But it comes,―
Like the warm sunshine from the quiet sky,-
It comes from heaven.

"A thing of beauty is a joy,"

But not a joy "for ever;"

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