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"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear,

The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;

And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,

The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk! And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,

But we'll meet no more at Bingen, loved Bingen on the Rhine."

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EDWARD LORD LYTTON.

THE SABBATH.

FRESH glides the brook and blows the gale,
Yet yonder halts the quiet mill;
The whirring wheel, the rushing sail,
How motionless and still!

Six days' stern labor shuts the poor
From Nature's careless banquet-hall;
The seventh an angel opes the door,
And, smiling, welcomes all!
A Father's tender mercy gave

This holy respite to the breast,
To breathe the gale, to watch the wave,
And know the wheel may rest!

Six days of toil, poor child of Cain,

Thy strength thy master's slave must be; The seventh the limbs escape the chain, — A God hath made thee free! The fields that yester-morning knew

Thy footsteps as their serf, survey;
On thee, as them, descends the dew,
The baptism of the day.

Fresh glides the brook and blows the gale,
But yonder halts the quiet mill;
The whirring wheel, the rushing sail,
How motionless and still!

So rest, O weary heart!-but, lo,

The church-spire, glistening up to heaven,

To warn thee where thy thoughts should go
The day thy God hath given!

Lone through the landscape's solemn rest,
The spire its moral points on high.
O soul, at peace within the breast,

Rise, mingling with the sky!
They tell thee, in their dreaming school,

When rich and poor, with juster rule,
Of power from old dominion hurled,

Shall share the altered world.

Alas! since time itself began,

That fable hath but fooled the hour; Each age that ripens power in man But subjects man to power. Yet every day in seven, at least,

One bright republic shall be known;

FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.

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Amid the leaves' green mass a sunny play Of flash and shadow stirs like inward life;

The ship's white sail glides onward far away,

Unhaunted by a dream of storm or strife. O Thou, the primal fount of life and peace, Who shedd'st thy breathing quiet all around,

In me command that pain and conflict cease,

And turn to music every jarring sound!

How longs each pulse within the weary soul To taste the life of this benignant hour, To be at one with thy untroubled whole, And in itself to know thy hushing

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Listen! that eloquent whisper, upspring-| From the fine acorn the strong forest

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Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us,

Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill.

bloweth ;

Temple and statue the marble block hides.

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Work, and pure slumbers shall wait on In finding thee are all things round us

Work,

thy pillow;

thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;

Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow!

Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

Labor is health!-Lo! the husbandman reaping,

How through his veins goes the life-current leaping!

How his strong arm in its stalwart pride sweeping,

True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides.

Labor is wealth, in the sea the pearl groweth;

Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ;

found;

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I see the hill's far-gazing head, Where gay thou noddest in the gale; I hear light-bounding footsteps tread The grassy path that winds along the vale.

I hear the voice of woodland song Break from each bush and wellknown tree,

And, on light pinions borne along, Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee.

O'er the dark rock the dashing brook,

With look of anger, leaps again, And, hastening to each flowery nook, Its distant voice is heard far down the glen.

Fair child of art! thy charms decay, Touched by the withered hand of Time;

And hushed the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime:

But on my heart thy cheek of bloom Shall live when Nature's smile has fled;

And, rich with memory's sweet perfume,

Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense shed.

There shalt thou live and wake the glee

That echoed on thy native hill; And when, loved flower! I think of thee,

My infant feet will seem to seek thee still.

THOMAS MILLER.

EVENING SONG.

How many days with mute adieu
Have gone down yon untrodden sky,
And still it looks as clear and blue
As when it first was hung on high.
The rolling sun, the frowning cloud
That drew the lightning in its rear,
The thunder tramping deep and loud,

Have left no foot-mark there.

Come softened by the distant shore;
The village-bells, with silver chime,
Though I have heard them many a time,
They never rung so sweet before.
A silence rests upon the hill,
A listening awe pervades the air;

The

very flowers are shut and still, And bowed as if in prayer.

And in this hushed and breathless close,
O'er earth and air and sky and sea,
A still low voice in silence goes,
Which speaks alone, great God, of thee.
The whispering leaves, the far-off brook,
The linnet's warble fainter grown,
The hive-bound bee, the building rook,
All these their Maker own.

Now Nature sinks in soft repose,
A living semblance of the grave;
The dew steals noiseless on the rose,
The boughs have almost ceased to wave;
The silent sky, the sleeping earth,
Tree, mountain, stream, the humble sod,
All tell from whom they had their birth,
And cry, "Behold a God!"

JOHN KEBLE.

[1796-1821.]

MORNING.

O, TIMELY happy, timely wise,
Hearts that with rising morn arise!
Eyes that the beam celestial view,
Which evermore makes all things new!

New every morning is the love
Our wakening and uprising prove,

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