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Seeming still — yet still in motion,
Tending onward to the ocean

Just like mortal prime.

River! River! rapid River!

Swifter now you slip away; Swift and silent as an arrow Through a channel dark and narrow

Like life's closing day.

River! River! headlong River!

Down you dash into the sea; Sea, that line hath never sounded, Sea, that voyage never bounded

Like eternity.

THE BROOK.

ALFRED TENNYSON.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,

I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,

Or slip between the ridges; By twenty thorps, a little town,

And half a hundred bridges.

I chatter over stony ways,

In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays,

I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret

By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow,

To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout,

And here and there a grayling.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,

I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots

That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,

Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeams dance

Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars

In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars,

I loiter round my cresses.

And out again I curve and flow

To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

- From "Maud

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Mary BOTHAM HOWITT (1798-1888), an English writer, who wrote for children, and many prose and poetical articles relating to nature. The tales of Frederika Bremer, and the “Improvisatorof Hans Christian Andersen, were translated into English by Mrs. Howitt.

God might have made the earth bring forth

Enough for great and small,
The oak tree and the cedar tree,
Without a flower at all.

We might have had enough, enough,

For every want of ours,

For luxury, medicine, and toil,

And yet have had no flowers.

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made

All dyed with rainbow light,
All fashioned with supremest grace,

Springing in valleys green and low,

And on the mountains high,
And in the silent wilderness

Where no man passes by ?

Our outward life requires them not,

Then wherefore had they birth?
To minister delight to man,

To beautify the earth.

To comfort man, to whisper hope,

Whene'er his faith is dim,
For whoso careth for the flowers

Will care much more for Him.

The drying of a single tear has more of honest fame than shedding seas of gore.-Byron.

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