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THE sun was going down, and day,
Wet through, to rest retired;
But with the sun's receding ray
The cloudy west was fired.

The clouds press'd down, like damp of doubt,
On young faith's heavenly claim;
Press'd on the west to smother out
The splendour of the flame.

"Ours is the sky," they said, "for there
Have we not dwelt for days!
Ours are the firmament and air;
Then, sun, withdraw thy blaze!”

The setting sun, in words of might,
Said to the clouds on high,
"Behold! I will this evening write
Out, plainly, my reply!"

The clouds blush'd, red as burning brand;

The shepherd laugh'd aloud,
For "RAINBOW!" over all the land,

Was written on the cloud!

"That's my delight," the shepherd cried,

"A bright fair-weather sign;

To night my flocks in hope abide,
Sure of to-morrow's shine!"

So may truth write a rainbow fair,
When clouds of doubt appear,
And prove in light to night of care,
That God in Christ is near.


LIKE one beloved for many sunny charms,
Whose countenance was comely, and oft lit
With radiant loveliness; who sweetly sung,
With a most merry voice, the happy songs
We could not envy,
but would always praise,
If not in words, yet with a conscious thrill
Of inward joy that would not be kept in,
But, like a light within an evening room,

That must stream thro' the window:-such was she,
From whose bright eyes the glory is departing;
To whom the weary and unwelcome winds,
At night and morn, come rudely; sweeping far
The faded roses from her sunny hair,

And changing it to grey.

The summer goeth

From field and forest,—from the gentle valley; From the low river and the lofty hill;

But, ere she goeth, ye may hear her singing,—

What are the signs of the Summer going—

Going so far away ?

Daily the dawning is nearer drawing

Unto the close of day;

Daily the fading leaves are leaving

Leaving the late green stem;

Nightly the wind in the wood is grieving

Grieving as over them.

These are the signs of the Summer going—
Going so far away;

There is no morn-spring of melody flowing

Down to the vale of day;

There is no nightingale, song outpouring,

After the sun is set;

Gone is the season when, gaily soaring,

Morning and melody met.

"Yes," saith the Summer, "I must be going;

My friends are getting few;
Coldly the wind in my face is blowing;
And song hath said "Adieu!"


Beauty and brightness and life are leaving—
Leaving me day by day;

See ye not how that my soul is grieving-
Grieving I may not stay?"

Such are the signs of the Summer going-
Going away so far!

Sad as the spirit of peace withdrawing

From the wild wind of war:

Daily the lifeless leaves are leaving

Leaving the late fair stem;

Nightly the winds in the woods are grieving-
Grieving as over them.


THE Great Exhibition-the Hall monumental—
The Palace of labour-the Temple of skill;
What forms of the beautiful, graceful and gentle,

Here glow like an Eden-view, seen from a hill!
These twenty-four acres of splendour are showing
The findings of thought in the flowing of time;
The harvest of mind in these acres is glowing;
The produce is splendid the prospect sublime!

The Hall monumental;—it stands a reminder Of one but for whom it would not have been rear'd;

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The Prince of the people ;

;-no better, or kinder, In this favour'd nation hath ever appear'd:

The death-book has added his name to its pages, But memory places him still where he stood: Whatever be lost in the forth-coming ages,

'T will not be the name of our ALBERT THE GOOD!

The Palace of labour;—it giveth assurance Of will to be useful in glare or in gloom; Of true-hearted daring, of patient endurance, In mine, field, or forest; at anvil or loom. The WORKS of the workman his praises are telling; The words upon willing ears pleasantly fall; The wave-roll of harmony, praisefully swelling, Acknowledges God as the Giver of all.

The Temple of skill;—it reveals the designer,
Impressing on matter the mark of his will :
In colour, and motion, and form, the combiner,
Hath shed upon nature the glory of skill :
The fair forms of grace-revelations of beauty,
And wonders of motion together combine,
To prove it is truly a joy and a duty,
To feel that the Spirit of Art is divine.

These twenty-four acres of splendour are showing The findings of thought in the flowings of time;

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