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Oh! my balmy days of boyhood,
Many, many years ago!

When I ranged at will the wild woods,
For the berry or the sloe,

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Or the gentle blue-eyed violet,
Traced by its own perfume sweet;
Or with light and cautious footstep
Sought the linnet's snug retreat;
Or with little blooming maidens,
To the nutting groves repaired,
And in warmth of purest boy-love,
The rich clusters with them shared ;
Or when hoary-headed winter

Brought his welcome frost and snow, How we thronged the frozen streamlets, Many, many years ago!

MANY, MANY YEARS AGO.

Then my days of dawning manhood,
Many, many years ago!

When the future seemed all brightness,
Lit with Love's enchanting glow.
Then with hopes and blissful day-dreams
Would my buoyant bosom crowd,
As I forth led my beloved one-
She as fair as I was proud;
Led her forth with lightsome footstep,
Where some happy rustic throng
To old Robin's merry music
Would so gaily dance along!

Or when round came joyous Christmas-
Oft beneath the mistletoe

Have I toyed with blushing maidens,
Many, many years ago!

Ah, ye golden days departed!
Yet full oft on memory's wing
Ye return like some bright vision,
And both joy and sorrow bring.
Where are now my dear companions,
Those dear friends of love and truth?
Death hath sealed the lips of many
Fair and beautiful in youth.
Robin's lute has long been silent,
And the trees are old and bare;
Silent, too, the rippling brooklets,
The old playground is not there.
Time hath stolen my fair one's beauty,
And he soon will strike the blow
That will break those ties that bound us
Many, many years ago!

-T. Loker.

83

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RULE BRITANNIA.

WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of the land,

And guardian angels sung the strain:
Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves,
Britons never shall be slaves.

The nations not so blest as thee

Must, in their turn, to tyrants fall;

Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.

Rule Britannia, &c.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke,
As the loud blast that tears the skies
Serves but to root thy native oak.

Rule Britannia, &c.

Thee, haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame,
And work their woe and thy renown.

Rule Britannia, &c.

To thee belongs the rural reign:

Thy cities shall with commerce shine;

All shall be subject to the main,

And every shore it circles thine.

Rule Britannia, &c.

The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair.

Blest isle! with matchless beauty crowned,

And manly hearts to guard the fair.

Rule Britannia, &c.

-James Thomson.

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BE patient! oh, be patient! put your ear against the earth; Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' the seed has birth— How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its little way,

Till it parts the scarcely broken ground, and the blade stands up in the day.

Be patient! oh, be patient! the germs of mighty thought Must have their silent undergrowth, must underground be wrought;

But as sure as there's a Power that makes the grass appear,
Our land shall be green with liberty, the blade-time shall be here.

Be patient! oh, be patient! go and watch the wheat-ears grow
So imperceptibly that ye can mark nor change nor throe;
Day after day, day after day, till the ear is fully grown,
And then again day after day till the ripened field is brown.

Be patient! oh, be patient! though yet our hopes are green, The harvest fields of freedom shall be crowned with sunny sheen, Be ripening! be ripening! mature your silent way,

Till the whole broad land is tongued with fire on Freedom's harvest day.

-Richard C. Trench.

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AND is there care in heaven?

And is there love In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, That may compassion of their evils move?

There is, else much more wretched were the case
Of men than beasts; but oh! the exceeding grace
Of highest God, that loves His creatures so,
And all His works with mercy doth embrace,

That blessed angels He sends to and fro
To serve to wicked man-to serve His wicked foe!

How oft do they their silver bowers leave

To come to succour us that succour want! How oft do they with golden pinions cleave The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant ! Against foul fiends, to aid us militant,

They for us fight; they watch and duly ward, And their bright squadrons round about us plant, And all for love, and nothing for reward:

Oh! why should heavenly God to man have such regard! -Edmund Spenser.

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