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THE SHEPHERD'S DELIGHT.
THE sun was going down, and day,
The clouds press'd down, like damp of doubt,
"Ours is the sky," they said, "for there
The setting sun, in words of might,
The clouds blush'd, red as burning brand;
For "RAINBOW!" over all the land,
Was written on the cloud!
"That's my delight," the shepherd cried,
To night my flocks in hope abide,
So may truth write a rainbow fair,
SONG OF DYING SUMMER.
LIKE one beloved for many sunny charms,
Of inward joy that would not be kept in,
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—
Daily the dawning is nearer drawing
Unto the close of day;
Daily the fading leaves are leaving
These are the signs of the Summer going—
There is no morn-spring of melody flowing
There is no nightingale, song outpouring,
Gone is the season when, gaily soaring,
"Yes," saith the Summer, "I must be going;
My friends are getting few;
"Beauty and brightness and life are leavingLeaving me day by day;
ye not how that my soul is grieving— Grieving I may not stay?
Such are the signs of the Summer going-
Sad as the spirit of peace withdrawing
Daily the lifeless leaves are leaving
Leaving the late fair stem;
Nightly the winds in the woods are grieving-
THE GREAT EXHIBITION.
THE Great Exhibition-the Hall monumentalThe 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;
The Prince of the people ;-
'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,
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;