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But Andrew, never have I heard

One who so much my spirit stirred,
As he who sate with me an hour,

Screened from the pelting thunder-shower –
Now laughing in his merry wit;
Now talking in a serious fit,

In speech that poured like water free;
And that was thou-Poor Andrew Lee

Then shame to think I knew thee not -
Thou hast not, nor have I forgot;
And long 'twill be ere I forget
How thou took'st up thy laden net,
And gave me all that it contained,
Because I too thy heart had gained !

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THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

THERE was a girl of fair Provence,
Fresh as a flower in May,

Who 'neath a spreading plane-tree sate,
Upon a summer-day,

And thus unto a mourner young,
In a low voice did say.

· “And said I, I shall dance no more;
For though but young in years,

I knew what makes men wise and sad,-
Affection's ceaseless fears,

And that dull aching of the heart,
Which is not eased by tears.

"But sorrow will not always last,

Heaven keeps our griefs in view;
Mine is a simple tale, dear friend,
Yet I will tell it you;

A simple tale of household grief
And household gladness too.

"My father in the battle died, And left young children three;

My brother Marc, a noble lad,

With spirit bold and free,

More kind than common brothers are;
And Isabel and me.

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"When Marc was sixteen summers old,

A tall youth and a strong,

Said he, 'I am a worthless drone,

I do my mother wrong

I'll hence and win the bread I eat,
I've burdened you too long!'

"Oh! many tears my mother shed; And earnestly did pray,

That he would still abide with us,

And be the house's stay;

And be like morning to her eyes,
As he had been alway.

"But Marc he had a steadfast will,
A purpose fixed and good,
And calmly still and manfully
Her prayers he long withstood;
Until at length she gave consent,
Less willing than subdued.

""Twas on a shining morn in June, He rose up to depart;

I dared not to my mother show

The sadness of my heart;

We said farewell, and yet farewell,

As if. we could not part.

"There seemed a gloom within the house,

Although the bright sun shone; There was a want within our hearts

For he, the dearest one,

Had said farewell that morn of June,
And from our sight was gone.

"At length most doleful tidings came,
Sad tidings of dismay;

The plague was in the distant town,
And hundreds died each day;

We thought, in truth, poor Marc would die,
'Mid strangers far away.

"Weeks passed, and months, and not a word Came from him to dispel

The almost certainty of death

Which o'er our spirits fell;

My mother drooped from fear, which grew
Each day more terrible.

"At length she said, 'I'll see my son,

In life if yet he be,

Or else the turf that covers him!"

When sank she on her knee,

And clasped her hands in silent prayer,
And wept most piteously.

"She went into the distant town,

Still asking everywhere

For tidings of her long-lost son :
In vain she made her prayer;
All were so full of wo themselves,
No pity had they to spare.

"To hear her tell that tale would move
The sternest heart to bleed;
She was a stranger in that place,
Yet none of her took heed;
And broken-hearted she came back,
A bowed and bruised reed.

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HOWITT'S POEMS.

"I marked her cheek yet paler grow, More sunken yet her eye;

And to my soul assurance came

That she was near to die,

And hourly was my earnest prayer
Put up for her on high.

"Oh, what a wo seemed then to us,
The friendless orphan's fate!
I dared not picture to my mind,
How drear, how desolate
But, like a frightened thing, my heart
Shrunk from a pang so great!

"We rarely left my mother's side,
"Twas joy to touch her hand,
And with unwearying, patient love,
Beside her couch to stand,
To wait on her, and every wish
Unspoke to understand.

At length, oh joy beyond all joys!
When we believed him dead,
One calm and sunny afternoon,
As she lay on her bed

In quiet sleep, methought below
I heard my brother's tread.

"I rose, and on the chamber stair,

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More beautiful than ere before,

My tall and manly brother!

I should have swooned, but for the thought
Of my poor sleeping mother.

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