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The flowers of Spring may wither,—the hope of

Summer fade,— The Autumn droop in Winter,—the birds forsake

the shade,— The wind be lull'd,—the sun and moon forget their

old decree, But we in Nature's latest hour, O Lord! will cling

to Thee.

Bishop Heber

CCVIII

THE LONGEST DA Y.

Let us quit the leafy arbour,
And the torrent murmuring by;

For the sun is in his harbour,
Weary of the open sky.

Evening now unbinds the fetters
Fashion'd by the glowing light;

All that breathe are thankful debtors
To the harbinger of night.

Yet by some grave thoughts attended
Eve renews her calm career;

For the day that now is ended,
Is the longest of the year.

Summer ebbs; each day that follows

Is a reflux from on high,
Tending to the darksome hollows

Where the frosts of winter lie.

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He who governs the creation,

In His providence, assigned
Such a gradual declination

To the life of human kind.

Yet we mark it not; fruits redden,

Fresh flowers blow, as flowers have blown,

And the heart is loth to deaden
Hopes that she so long hath known.

Be thou wiser, youthful maiden!

And, when thy decline shall come,
Let not flowers, or bough fruit-laden,

Hide the knowledge of thy doom.

Now, e'en now, ere wrapp'd in slumber,

Fix thine eyes upon the sea
That absorbs time, space, and number,—

Look thou to eternity!

W. Wordsworth

ccix BUBBLES UNDER ICE

Hast thou seen with flash incessant

Bubbles gliding under ice,
Bodied forth, and evanescent,

No one knows by what device?

Such are thoughts—a wind-swept meadow

Mimicking a troubled sea,
Such is life; and death a shadow

From the rock Eternity!

W. Wordsworth

ccx

A-MA YING

Yes, surely there's a love abroad
Through every nerve of Nature playing;

And all between the sky and sod,
All, all the world has gone a-Maying.

O, wherefore do I sit and give

My fancy up to idle playing? Too well I know the half who live,

One half the world, is not a-Maying.

Where are the dwellers of the lanes,

The alleys of the stifled city? Where the waste forms whose sad remains

Woo death to come for very pity?

Where they who tend the busy loom,
With pallid cheek, and torn apparel?

The buds they weave will never bloom,
Their staring birds will never caroL

And where the young of every size

The factories draw from every bye-way;

Whose violets are each other's eyes,
But dull as by a dusty highway?

Whose cotton lilies only grow

'Mid whirring wheels, or jarring spindles? Their roses in the hectic glow

To tell how fast the small life dwindles.

Where are the dusky miners ?—they
Who, ever in the earth descending,

Know well the night before their May
Is one which has in life no ending?

To them 'tis still a joy, I ween,

To know, while through the darkness going, That o'er their heads the smiling queen

Stands with her countless garlands glowing.

O ye who toil in living tombs
Of light, or dark, no rest receiving,

Far o'er your heads a May time blooms—
O then be patient, and believing.

Be patient; when earth's winter fails—
The weary night, which keeps ye staying,—

Then through the broad celestial vales
Your spirits shall go out a-Maying.

T. B. Read

CCXI

SUNNY DA YS IN WINTER

Summer is a glorious season,
Warm, and bright, and pleasant;

But the past is not a reason
To despise the present:

So, while health can climb the mountain,
And the log lights up the hall,
There are sunny days in winter, after all!

Spring, no doubt, hath faded from us,

Maiden-like in charms;
Summer, too, with all her promise,

Perish'd in our arms:
But the memory of the vanish'd

Whom our hearts recall,
Maketh sunny days in winter, after all!

True, there's scarce a flower that bloometh—

All the best are dead;
But the wall-flower still perfumeth

Yonder garden bed;
And the arbutus, pearl-blossom'd,

Hangs its coral ball:
There are sunny days in winter, after all!

Summer trees are pretty—very,

And I love them well;
But this holly's glistening berry

None of those excel.
While the fir can warm the landscape,

And the ivy clothes the wall,
There are sunny days in winter, after all!

Sunny hours in every season

Wait the innocent;—
Those who taste with love and reason

What their God has sent;
Those who neither soar too highly,

Nor too lowly fall,
Feel the sunny days of winter, after all 1

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