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WHY SO stately, Maiden fair,

Rising in thy nurse's arms
With that condescending air;

Gathering up thy queenly charms,
Like some gorgeous Indian bird,

Which, when at eve the balmy copse is stirr'd,
Turns the glowing neck, to chide

Th' irreverent footfall, then makes haste to hide
Again its lustre deep

Under the purple wing, best home of downy sleep?

CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS.

Not as yet she comprehends

How the tongues of men reprove,
But a spirit o'er her bends,

Train'd in heaven to courteous love,
And with wondering grave rebuke
Tempers, to-day, shy tone and bashful look.
Graceless one, 'tis all of thee,

Who for her maiden bounty, full and free,
The violet from her gay

And guileless bosom, didst no word of thanks repay.

Therefore, lo, she opens wide

Both her blue and wistful eyes—
Breathes her grateful chant, to chide
Our too tardy sympathies.

Little Babes and Angels bright--
They muse, be sure, and wonder, day and night,
How th' all-holy Hand should give,

The sinner's hand in thankfulness receive.

We see it and we hear,

But wonder not: for why? we feel it all too near.

Not in vain, when feasts are spread,

To the youngest at the board

Call we to incline the head,

And pronounce the solemn word.
Not in vain they clasp and raise
The soft pure fingers in unconscious praise,
Taught perchance by pictur'd wall
How little ones before the Lord may fall,

How to His loved caress

Reach out the restless arm, and near and nearer press.

Children in their joyous ranks,

As you pace the village street,
Fill the air with smiles and thanks
If but once one babe you greet.

CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS.

Never weary, never dim,

From Thrones Seraphic mounts th' eternal hymn.

Babes and Angels grudge no praise:

But elder souls, to whom His saving ways

Are open, fearless take

Their portion, hear the Grace, and no meek answer make.

Save our blessings, Master, save

From the blight of thankless eye;
Teach us for all joys to crave,

Benediction pure and high,

Own them given, endure them gone,

Shrink from their hardening touch, yet prize them won:

Prize them as rich odours, meet

For Love to lavish on His Sacred Feet ;

Prize them as sparkles bright

Of heavenly dew, from yon o'erflowing well of light.

HEARKEN, children of the May,
Now in your glad hour and gay,
Ye whom all good Angels greet

With their treasures blithe and sweet :-
None of all the wreaths ye prize

But was nursed by weeping skies.
Keen March winds, soft April showers,
Braced the roots, embalmed the flowers.
So, if e'er that second Spring

Her green robe o'er you shall fling,
Stern self-mastery, tearful prayer,

Must the way of bliss prepare.

How should else Earth's flowerets prove

Meet for those pure crowns above?

Same.

Keble.

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A MOUNTAIN lake, where sleeps the midday Moon, When beetle booming by is heard no more

THE WAY TO THE CHAPTER HOUSE.

'Twixt drowsy hills and sea a sultry noon,
A rural Church, some evening funeral o'er-
A leaf's still image in a fountain hoar-
On cloistral pane the gaze of Saint or Seer,
Suffus'd with lessons sweet of heavenly lore,
And heavenly-rapt affection-These all wear
Calm unalloy'd, but none so deep as lingereth here.

II.

The long green avenue, where light and shade
Chequering the floor, now play, now sleep profound;
Old pines, the lonely breeze that by them stray'd
Wooing in vain; old yews, hiding the ground,
Grey oaks, and far-off spires, seem to have found
A voice, while busier sounds are dimly spent,

As waken'd by the stillness. One around,
On pillars of blue light hath spread His tent ;
And walks with us below in silence eloquent.

III.

And now we hear Him: thus when Nature's wheel

Is still, we find ourselves hurrying along;

In crowds ourselves alone we mostly feel;

When turbulence of business, and the throng Of passionate hopes, which unto Earth belong, And mould too oft from Earth the rebel will, Sleep; then we hear the mighty undersong,

To which loud Niagara's voice is still,

And mute the thunders strong which air and ocean fill.

IV.

O heavenly Love, that o'er us, sin defil'd,
With thy blest arm beneath us, leaning low,
Dost watch, fond mother, o'er thy slumbering child,
That still in dreams is tossing to and fro,

And knowing knows thee not! Aye! come and go

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