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Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear,
Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear,

Had scathed my existence's bloom ;
Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage,
With the visions of youth to revisit my age,
And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

PROCRASTINATION.

THE bell strikes one. We take no note of time,
But from its loss. To give it then a tongue
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke,
I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright
It is the knell of my departed hours.
Where are they? With the years beyond the flood.
It is the signal that demands despatch.
Be wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer;
Next day the fatal precedent will plead :
Thus on till wisdom is push'd out of life.
Procrastination is the thief of time;
Year after it steals till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment, leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene. YOUNG.

THE REAPER AND THE ANGELS.

THERE is a Reaper whose name is Death,

And with his sickle keen,
He

reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

“ Shall I have nought that is fair ?” said he,

“Have nought but the bearded grain ? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,

I will give them all back again.”

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,

He kissed their drooping leaves ;
It was for the Lord of Paradise,

He bound them in his sheaves,

My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"

The Reaper said, and smiled ;
“ Dear tokens of the earth are they,

Where he was once a child.

They shall all bloom in fields of light,

Transplanted by my care,
And saints upon their garments white,

These sacred blossoms wear.”

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,

The flowers she most did love;
She knew she should find them all again

In the fields of light above.

0, not in cruelty, not in wrath,

The Reaper came that day ;
'Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.

LONGFELLOW.

I

THE BEAUTIES OF CREATION.

I PRAISED the earth, in beauty seen,
With garlands gay of various green ;
I praised the sea, whose ample field
Shone glorious as a silver shield :
And earth and ocean seemed to say,
“Our beauties are but for a day!”

I praised the sun, whose chariot rollid
On wheels of amber and of gold ;
I praised the moon, whose softer eye
Gleamed sweetly through the summer sky:
And moon and sun in answer said,
“ Our days of light are numbered !"

O God ! O good beyond compare !
If thus thy meaner works are fair,
If thus thy bounties gild the span
Of ruin'd earth and sinful man,-
How glorious must the mansion be,
Where thy redeem'd shall dwell with Thee !

HEBER.

THE VOICE OF SPRING.

I COME, I come!

ye

have call'd me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song ;
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breath'd on the South, and the chestnut-flowers,
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers ;
And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes,
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains.
-But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb !

I have pass'd o'er the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright where my step has been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep blue sky,
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain ;
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain-brows,
They are flinging spray on the forest boughs,
They are bursting forth from their starry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may now be your home.
Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly,
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine, I may

not stay.

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in wood and glen ;
Away from the chamber and dusky hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth;
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
And Youth is abroad in my green domains.

Mrs. HEMANS.

THE MISSIONARY'S HOME.

It stood amid the mountains,

From whose crowned crests sublime
Came the voice of

many fountains,
And the faint wind's passing chime.
The giant river rush'd like light,

Through all the unbounded plain,
Or warrior to the field of fight,

So dashed it to the main.

A home to dream of_beautiful !

It stood beneath the trees,
That gave the fragrance of their breath

To every passing breeze.
A lovely dwelling, low and lone,

A calm and sweet abode,
A habitation fit for one,

Whose life was given to God.

The Indian from the forest,

From the prairie, from the wild,
Beheld that habitation

With the gladness of a child;

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