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Oh, come again, ye merry times!
Sweet, sunny, fresh, and calm;
And let me hear those Easter chimes,
And wear my Sunday palm.
If I could cry away mine eyes,
My tears would flow in vain;
If I could waste my heart in sighs,
They'll never come again!

Old times! old times!

WHAT THE VOICE SAID.

By WHITTIER an American poet.

MADDEN'D by earth's wrong and evil, "Lord!" I cried in sudden ire,

"From thy right hand, clothed with thunder, Shake the bolted fire!

"Love is lost, and Faith is dying:
With the brute the man is sold;
And the dropping blood of labour
Hardens into gold.

"Here the dying wail of Famine,
There the battle's groan of pain;
And in silence, smooth-faced Mammon
Reaping men like grain.

"Where is God, that we should fear Him?'

Thus the earth-born Titans say;

'God! if thou art living, hear us!'

Thus the weak ones pray.

"Thou, the patient Heaven upbraiding,"
Spake a solemn Voice within;
"Weary of our Lord's forbearance,
Art thou free from sin ?

"Fearless brow to Him uplifting,
Canst thou for his thunders call,
Knowing that to guilt's attraction
Evermore they fall?

"Know'st thou not all germs of evil
In thy heart await their time?
Not thyself, but God's restraining,
Stays their growth of crime.

"Could'st thou boast, oh child of weakness!
O'er the sons of wrong and strife,
Were their strong temptations planted
In thy path of life?

"Thou hast seen two streamlets gushing
From one fountain, clear and free,
But by widely varying channels
Searching for the sea.

"Glideth one through greenest valleys,
Kissing them with lips still sweet,
One, mad roaring down the mountains,
Stagnates at their feet.

"Is it choice whereby the Parsee
Kneels before his mother's fire?
In his black tent did the Tartar
Choose his wandering sire?

"He alone, whose hand is bounding
Human power and human will,
Looking through each soul's surrounding,
Knows its good or ill.

"For thyself, while wrong and sorrow
Make to thee their strong appeal,

Coward wert thou not to utter

What the heart must feel.

"Earnest words must needs be spoken,

When the warm heart bleeds, or burns,

With its scorn of wrong, or pity
For the wronged, by turns.

"But by all thy nature's weakness,
Hidden faults and follies known,

Be thou, in rebuking evil,

Conscious of thine own.

"Not the less shall stern-eyed Duty
To thy lips her trumpet set,
But with harsher blasts shall mingle
Wailings of regret."

Cease not, Voice of holy speaking,
Teacher sent of God, be near;
Whispering through the day's cool silence,
Let my spirit hear!

So, when thoughts of evil doers
Waken scorn or hatred move,
Shall a mournful fellow-feeling
Temper all with love.

TO THE WATER NYMPHS, DRINKING AT A FOUNTAIN.
By HERRICK.

REACH with your whiter hands to me,
Some crystal of the spring;

And I, about the cup shall see
Fresh lilies flourishing.

Or else, sweet nymphs, do

you

but this;

To the glass your lips incline;

And I shall see, by that one kiss,
The water turn'd to wine.

REJOICE IN MAY.

By an old poet called EDWARDS.

WHEN May is in his prime,

Then may each heart rejoice;

When May bedecks each branch with green,
Each bird strains forth his voice.

The lively sap creeps up

Into the blooming thorn:

The flowers, which cold in prison kept,
Now laugh the frost to scorn.

All Nature's imps triumph
Whiles joyful May doth last;
When May is gone, of all the year
The pleasant time is past.

May makes the cheerful hue,

May breeds and brings new blood, May marcheth throughout every limb, May makes the merry mood.

May pricketh gentle hearts

Their warbling notes to tune. Full strange it is, yet some, we see, Do make their May in June.

Thus things are strangely wrought,
Whiles joyful May doth last.
Take May in time: when May is gone,
The pleasant time is past.

All ye that live on earth,

And have your May at will,
Rejoice in May, as I do now,
And use your May with skill.

Use May, while that you may,
For May hath but his time;
When all the fruit is gone, it is
Too late the tree to climb.

Your liking and your lust

Is fresh whiles May doth last : When May is gone, of all the year The pleasant time is past.

THE REMONSTRANCE.

By BARRY CORNWALL.

THOU'LT take me with thee, my love, my love?
Wherever thou'rt forced by fate, to move?
Over the land, or over the sea,

Thou know'st 'tis the same delight to me.
What say'st thou, dear?
Thy bride is here,

All ready to live and die with thee,

Her heart was in the song;
It murmur'd in the measure;
It touch'd the music all along,
With a grave sweet pleasure.

Thou wilt not leave me behind, behind,
To the malice of fortune, harsh and blind?
I'll follow thy call, as a bird would flee,
And sing or be mute as thou biddest me.
What say'st thou, dear,
To my fond, fond fear?

Thou can'st not banish thy love from thee!

Her heart was in the song;
It murmur'd in the measure;
It touch'd the music, all along,
With a grave sweet pleasure.

What say'st thou, my soldier, my love, my pride?
Thy answer? What, was I not born thy bride?
From my cradle e'er cherish'd for love and thee,
And dar'st thou now banish or bid me flee?
Smil'st thou at my fear?

Ah, then, my dear,

I know I may love-live-die with thee!

Her heart was in the song;
It murmur'd in the measure;
It touch'd the music, all along,
With a grave sweet pleasure.

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