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Spirit of Beauty! thou dost touch the mountains,

And they are shadowed on the pale blue sky Distant and dim, or look like silver fountains

Of light, when snows are there, and stars are high. And the rich sunset clouds, at day's declining,

Grow glorious as bright dreams beneath thy power; And thou art surely in the pale moon's shining,

In the lone grandeur of the midnight hour.

Spirit of Beauty! on the maiden's forehead,

Beneath her braided hair, thy spell hath been ,
And in the placid eyes that once have sorrowed,

But now in holy patience shine serene;
And in the autumn groves our steps thou meetest,

Upon the fading flowers thy glories be,
The saddest music often is the sweetest,

And earth's most mournful things are full of thee.

Therefore, when fadeth some sweet lip, and paleth

The cheek, and the bright eye grows sunk and dull Whene'er the spirit o'er the clay prevaileth,

We say, we scarce know why, “How beautiful!”
And when some heart of gentle mould is broken,

Yet to the very last doth faithful prove,
Cold, cold must be the lip that hath not spoken

Of the pure beauty of a woman's love.

Spirit of Beauty! now I know thy dwelling

'Tis not in the cold earth, or sea, or air; The human heart is thy abode, and swelling

Its throbbing pulses, thou art shrined there. From thence thou shinest out, and fling'st thy lightning,

Making even beautiful this world of strife ; Touchest the poets' songs, and fling'st thy brightening

And circling glory o'er the paths of life.

SONG OF THE MOUNTAIN WARRIORS.

Up, on the ancient hills,

Send your voices far and wide,
Till the highest cragland thrills

With the shout of hope and pride.

Up, up, with spear and shield,

And the ringing bugle horn,
And we will down to the battle field,

Like the reaper to the corn.
Our feet again shall stand

Where our valiant fathers trod, And we'll send this shout o'er our native land

“For our country and our God!,"

Oh little dreams the foe

Of the wild hill's hidden powers, And little doth he know

The strength of hearts like ours.
We will pass the craggy bars

That shuts us from his sight,
And out at once, like a host of stars,

From the darkness of the night ;
Like the rushing of a stream,
New born from the heathery sod;

And shout, while spears and lances gleam, “For our country and our God!”

Onward ! the foeman keeps

His watch and ward in vain ; The spirit that never sleeps

Is hovering o'er the plain;
A spirit that never tires,

Oh Liberty ! thou art :
And thou hast lit thine altar fires

In every true man's heart.
For our fields so long laid waste

By the tyrant's burning rod, For our hearths, and halls, and hearts disgraced,

“For our country and our God !”

Lo! yonder spreads the plain,

With our dwellings scattered o'er! But, though our path be o'er the slain,

We'll sit by their hearths once more !
For the red gold's tinsel shine,

By the tyrant they've been sold;
But we'll pay their price from a richer mine,

In a redder coin than gold.
We must make you tall spears bow,

And yon crested helmets nod-
Farewell to caves and crags,—and now,

“For our country and our God!"

MARY HOWITT.

THE POET AND HER POETRY.

(MARY HOWITT is a Member of the Society of Friends, and published jointly with her husband, two volumes of poems. The “Forest Minstrel,” in 1823, and the “Desolation of Eyam," and other poems in 1827. In 1834, she published the “Seven Temptations,” a series of dramatic poems containing much sterling poetry. Her principal forte, however, is in the “ Old Ballad,” in which she surpasses all modern writers. Mrs. Howitt is favourably known to the public by her “ Sketches of Natural History," “ Tales in Verse," and the “Christmas Book,” all of which abound in passages of great poetical beauty.]

EXTRACTS FROM MARY HOWITT'S POEMS.

BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES.

Buttercups and Daisies

Oh the pretty flowers,
Coming ere the spring-time

To tell of sunny hours.
While the trees are leafless;

While the fields are bare,
Buttercups and Daisies

Spring up here and there.

Ere the snow-drop peepeth;

Ere the crocus bold; Ere the early primrose

Opes its paly gold, Somewhere on a sunny bank

Buttercups are bright! Somewhere 'mong the frozen grass

Peeps the Daisy white.

Little hardy flowers

Like to children poor, Playing in their sturdy health

By their mother's door : Purple with the north-wind

Yet alert and bold, Fearing not and caring not,

Though they be a-cold !

What to them is weather !

What are stormy showers ! Buttercups and daisies

Are these human flowers ! He who gave them hardship

And a life of care, Gave them likewise hardy strength,

And patient hearts to bear.

Welcome yellow buttercups,

Welcome daisies white, Ye are in my spirit

Visioned, a delight! Coming ere the spring-time

Of sunny hours to tell Speaking to our hearts of Him

Who doeth all things well.

MARIEN LEE.

Not a care hath Marien Lee, Dwelling by the sounding sea ! Her young life's a flowery way :Without toil from day to day, Without bodings for the morrow, Marien was not made for sorrow !

Like the summer-billows wild
Leaps the happy-hearted child;
Sees her father's fishing-boat,
O’er the waters gaily float;
Hears her brother's fishing-song
On the light gale borne along;

Half a league she hears the lay,
Ere they turn into the bay,
And with glee, o'er cliff and main,
Sings an answer back again,
Which by man and boy is heard,
Like the carol of a bird.
Look! she sitteth laughing there,
Wreathing sea-weed in her hair,
Saw ye e'er a thing so fair ?

Marien, some are rich in gold,
Heaped-up treasure-stores untold ;
Some in thought sublime, refined,
And the glorious wealth of mind :
Thou, sweet child, life's rose unblown,
Hast a treasure of thine own-
Youth's most unalloyed delights ;
Happy days, and tranquil nights ;
Hast a brain with thought unvexed;
A heart untroubled, unperplexed !

Go, thou sweet one, all day long,
Like a glad bird, pour thy song;
And let thy young, graceful head,
Be with sea-flowers garlanded;
For all outward signs of glee,
Well befit thee, Marien Lee!

THE USE OF FLOWERS.

God might have bade the earth bring forth

Enough for great and small, The oak-tree and the cedar-tree,

Without a flower at all.

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