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VERSE PRINTED AS

PROSE.

A CHANGE.*

THE old house by the lindens stood silent in the shade, and on the gravelled pathway the light and shadow played.

I saw the nursery windows wide open to the air; but the faces of the children, they were no longer there. LONGFELLOW.

THE BLACKBIRD.

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PIPED the blackbird on the beechwood spray : "Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, what's your name? quoth he-" what's your name? O stop and straight unfold, pretty maid, with showery curls of gold."- "Little Bell," said she.

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks,-tossed aside her gleaming golden locks" Bonny bird," quoth she, "sing me your best song before I go." Here's the very finest song I know, little Bell," said he.

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And the blackbird piped; you never heard half so gay a song from any bird-full of quips and wiles, now so round and rich, now soft and slow all for love of that sweet face below, dimpled o'er with smiles. WESTWOOD.

This and the following poems are printed as prose, and are not spaced. Nor are notes or introductions given. The purpose of this is to give opportunities for the teacher to question on pauses, groups, and emphasis, the pupil being now left without guidance.

A COUNTRY LIFE.

A COUNTRY life is sweet! In moderate cold and heat, to walk in the air, how pleasant and fair! In every field of wheat, the fairest of flowers adorning the bowers, and every meadow's brow; so that I say, no courtier may compare with them who clothe in gray, and follow the useful plough.

They rise with the morning lark, and labour till almost dark; then, folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep; while every pleasant park next morning is ringing with birds that are singing, on each green, tender bough. With what content and merriment, their days are spent, whose minds are bent to follow the useful plough!

IN DEFENCE OF COMMONS.

Ir glads the eye, it warms the soul to gaze upon the rugged knoll, where tangled brushwood twines across the struggling brake and sedgy moss. Oh, who would have the grain spring up where now we find the daisy's cup? Where clumps of dark red heather gleam with beauty in the summer beam, and yellow furze-bloom laughs to scorn your ripened hopes and bursting corn? God speed the plough! but, let us trace something of nature's infant face; let us behold some spot where man has not yet set his bar and ban. Leave us some green wastes, fresh and wild, for poor man's beast and poor man's child. ELIZA COOK.

DESOLATION.

I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, in my days of childhood, in my joyful schooldays; all, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; all, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I pace round the haunts of my childhood; earth seems a desert I am bound to traverse, seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling, so might we talk of the old familiar faces :

How some they have died, and some they have left me, and some are taken from me; all are departed; all, all are gone, the old familiar faces. C. LAMB.

PLEASURE AND WORK.

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THE DEAD CHILD.

THE South wind brings life, sunshine, and desire, and on every mount and meadow breathes aromatic fire; but over the dead he has no power; the lost, the lost, he can not restore; and looking over the hills, I mourn the darling who shall not return.

I see my empty house; I see my trees repair their boughs; and he, the wondrous child, whose silver warble wild out-valued every pulsing sound within the air's cerulean round-the hyacinthine boy, for whom morn well might break, and April bloom-the gracious boy, who did adorn the world whereinto he was born, and by his countenance repay the favour of the loving day, has disappeared from the day's eye. Far and wide she cannot find him; my hopes pursue, they can not bind him. EMERSON.

THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN.

SWEET to the morning traveller the song amid the sky, where, twinkling in the dewy light, the skylark soars on high. And cheering to the traveller the gales that round him play, when faint and heavily he drags along his noontide way. And when beneath the unclouded sun full wearily toils he, the flowing water makes to him a soothing melody. And when the evening light decays, and all is calm around, there is sweet music to his ear in the distant sheepbell's sound. But oh! of all delightful sounds of evening or of morn, the sweetest is the voice of love that welcomes his return.

SOUTHEY.

A DIRGE.

FEAR no more the heat o' the sun, nor the furious winter's rages; thou thy worldly task hast done, home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: golden lads and girls all must, as chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown of the great-thou art past the tyrant's stroke; care no more to clothe and eat; to thee the reéd is as the oak. The sceptre, learning, physic, must all follow this, and come to dust. SHAKSPEARE.

PLEASURE AND WORK.

SWEET is the pleasure itself cannot spoil! Is not true leisure one with true toil? Thou that would'st taste it, still do thy best; use it, not waste it-else 'tis no rest. Would'st behold beauty near

thee? all round? Only hath duty such a sight found. Rest is not quitting the busy career; rest is the fitting of self to its sphere. 'Tis the brook's motion, clear without strife, fleeing to ocean after its life. JOHN SULLIVAN DWIGHT.

AN INTERIOR.

INDOORS, warm, by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smokewreaths struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him, nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic, darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness. Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair, laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine. Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas, such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards. LONGFELLOW.

THE INVISIBLE PASSENGER.

MANY a year is in its grave since I crossed this restless wave; and the evening, fair as ever, shines on ruin, rock, and river.

Then in this same boat beside sat two comrades old and tried-one with all a father's truth, one with all the fire of youth.

One on earth in silence wrought, and his grave in silence sought; but the younger, brighter form passed in battle and in storm.

So whene'er I turn my eye back upon the days gone by, saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me,-friends that closed their course before me.

But what binds us friend to friend, but that soul with soul can blend? Soul-like were those hours of yore; let us walk in soul once

more.

Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee,-take, I give it willingly; for invisible to thee, spirits twain have crossed with me. UHLAND.

A LAST MEETING.

WE stood upon the rugged rocks, when the long day was nearly done; the waves had ceased their sullen shocks, and lapped our feet

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