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Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies,
Die in the large and charitable air.
And all our rarer, better, truer self,
That sobbed religiously in yearning song,
That watched to ease the burthen of the world,
Laboriously tracing what must be,
And what may yet be better — saw within
A worthier image for the sanctuary,
And shaped it forth before the multitude
Divinely human, raising worship so
To higher reverence more mixed with love-
That better self shall live till human Time
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb
Unread forever. This is life to come,
Which martyred men have made more glorious
For us who strive to follow. May I reach
That purest heaven, be to other souls
The cup of strength in some great agony,
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty –
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,
And in diffusion ever more intense.
So shall I join the choir invisible
Whose music is the gladness of the world.

GEORGE ELIOT.

Cuddle Boon.
THE bairnies cuddle doon at nicht,

Wi' mickle faucht an' din ;
“O try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues,

Your faither's comin' in."
They never heed a word I speak;

I try to gie a froon,
But aye I hap them up, an' cry,
“O bairnies, cuddle doon."

Wee Jamie wi the curly head —

He aye sleeps next the wa'
Bangs up an' cries, “I want a piece!”

The rascal starts them a'.
I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks,

They stop awee the soun',
Then draw the blankets up, an' cry,
"Noo, weanies, cuddle doon."

But ere five minutes gang wee Rab

Cries oot frae 'neath the claes, " Mither, mak’ Tam gie ower at ance,

He's kittlin wi' his taes." The mischief's in that Tam for tricks,

He'd bother half the toon, But aye I hap them up, an' cry, “O bairnies, cuddle doon.”

At length they hear their father's fit,

An' as he steeks the door
They turn their faces to the wa',

While Tam pretends to snore. “ Hae a' the weans been gude ?” he asks

As he pits off his shoon. “ The bairnies, John, are in their beds,

An' lang since cuddled doon."

An' just afore we bed oorsel'

We look at oor wee lambs; Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck,

An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's. I lift wee Jamie up the bed,

An' as I straik each croon I whisper, till my heart fills up, “O bairnies, cuddle doon."

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht,

Wi' mirth that's dear to me ;
But sune the big warl's cark an' care

Will quaten doon their glee.
Yet come what will to ilka ane,

May He who sits aboon
Aye wbisper, though their pows be bauld,
“O bairnies, cuddle doon."

ALEXANDER ANDERSON.

Light.

The night has a thousand eyes,

And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies

With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,

And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.

FRANCIS WILLIAM BOURDILLON.

TWhat My Lover Said.
By the merest chance, in the twilight gloom,

In the orchard path he met me;
In the tall, wet grass, with its faint perfume,
And I tried to pass, but he made no room,

Oh I tried, but he would not let me.
So I stood and blushed till the grass grew red,

With my face bent down above it,
While he took my hand as he whispering said
(How the clover lifted each pink, sweet head,
To listen to all that my lover said ;

Oh, the clover in bloom, I love it !)

In the high, wet grass went the path to hide,

And the low wet leaves hung over ;
But I could not pass upon either side,
For I found myself, when I vainly tried,

In the arms of my steadfast lover.
And he held me there and he raised my head,

While he closed the path before me,
And he looked down into my eyes and said -
(How the leaves bent down from the boughs o'erhead,
To listen to all that my lover said;

Oh, the leaves hanging lowly o'er me!)

Had he moved aside but a little way,

I could surely then have passed him ;
And he knew I never could wish to stay,
And would not have heard what he had to say,

Could I only aside have cast him.
It was almost dark, and the moments sped,

And the searching night wind found us,
But he drew me nearer and softly said
(How the pure, sweet wind grew still, instead,
To listen to all that my lover said ;

Oh, the whispering wind around us !)

I am sure he knew, when he held me fast,

That I must be all unwilling;
For I tried to go, and I would have passed,
As the night was come with its dew, at last,

And the sky with its stars was filling.
But he clasped me close when I would have fled,

And he made me hear his story,
And his soul came out from his lips and said --
(How the stars crept out where the white moon led,
To listen to all that my lover said ;

Oh, the moon and the stars in glory !)

I know that the grass and the leaves will not tell,

And I'm sure that the wind, precious rover, Will carry my secret so safely and well

That no being shall ever discover One word of the many that rapidly fell

From the soul-speaking lips of my lover ;

And the moon and the stars that looked over
Shall never reveal what a fairy-like spell
They wove round about us that night in the dell,

In the path through the dew-laden clover,
Nor echo the whispers that made my heart swell
As they fell from the lips of my lover.

HOMER GREENE.

What Does it Matter ?
It matters little where I was born,

Or if my parents were rich or poor ;
Whether they shrank at the cold world's scorn,

Or walked in the pride of wealth secure.
But whether I live an honest man,

And hold my integrity firm in my clutch, I tell you, brother, plain as I can,

It matters much.

It matters little how long I stay

In a world of sorrow, sin, and care ; Whether in youth I am called away,

Or live till my bones and pate are bare. But whether I do the best I can

To soften the weight of Adversity's touch On the faded cheek of my fellow-man,

It matters much.

It matters little where be my grave,

Or on the land or in the sea,
By purling brook, or ’neath stormy wave, —

It matters little or nought to me.

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