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But make on the banks of our river its home!'

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THERE never yet was flower fair in vain, | Ah, weary bird ! thou wilt not fly again :
Let classic poets rhyme it as they will ;

Thy wings are clipped, thou canst no more de. The seasons toil that it may blow again,

part, —
And summer's heart doth feel its every ill ; | Thy nest is builded in my heart !
Nor is a true soul ever born for naught :

III.
Wherever any such hath lived and died,
There hath been something for true freedom I was the crescent; thou
wrought,

The silver phantom of the perfect sphere,
Some bulwark levelled on the evil side :

Held in its bosom : in one glory now
Toil on, then, Greatness ! thou art in the right, Our lives united shine, and many a year —
However narrow souls may call thee wrong:

| Not the sweet moon of bridal only — we Be as thou wouldst be in thine own clear sight, One lustre, ever at the full, shall be : And so thou wilt in all the world's erelong :

One pure and rounded light, one planet whole, For worldlings cannot, struggle as they may,

One life developed, one completed soul ! From man's great soulone great thought hideaway.

thought hideaway. For I in thee, and thou in me,

Unite our cloven halves of destiny.

IV.

I THOUGHT our love at full, but I did err; God knew his chosen time.
Joy's wreath drooped o'er mine eyes ; I could not He bade me slowly ripen to my prime,
see

And from my boughs withheld the promised fruit,
That sorrow in our happy world must be Till storm and sun gave vigor to the root.
Love's deepest spokesman and interpreter ? Secure, O Love ! secure
But, as a mother feels her child first stir Thy blessing is : I have thee day and night :
Under her heart, so felt I instantly

Thou art become my blood, my life, my light: Deep in my soul another bond to thee

God's mercy thou, and therefore shalt endure. Thrill with that life we saw depart from her;

BAYARD TAYLOR. O mother of our angel child ! twice dear ! Death knits as well as parts, and still, I wis, Her tender radince shall infold us here,

THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.
Even as the light, borne up by inward bliss,
Threads the void glooms of space without a fear, The day returns, my bosom burns,
To print on farthest stars her pitying kiss.

The blissful day we twa did meet;
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. Though winter wild in tempest toiled,

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet.
Than a' the pride that loads the tide,

And crosses o'er the sultry line, -
POSSESSION.

Than kingly robes, and crowns and globes,

Heaven gave me more ; it made thee mine. “It was our wedding-day

While day and night can bring delight, A month ago," dear heart, I hear you say.

Or nature aught of pleasure give, If months, or years, or ages since have passed,

While joys above my mind can move, I know not : I have ceased to question Time.

For thee and thee alone I live; I only know that once there pealed a chime

When that grim foe of life below Of joyous bells, and then I held you fast,

Comes in between to make us part, And all stood back, and none my right denied,

The iron hand that breaks our band, And forth we walked : the world was free and wide

It breaks my bliss, - it breaks my heart. Before us. Since that day I count my life: the Past is washed away.

1.

ROBERT BURNS.

THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG.

II.
It was no dream, that vow :
It was the voice that woke me from a dream, —
A happy dream, I think ; but I am waking now,
And drink the splendor of a sun supreme
That turns the mist of former tears to gold.
Within these arms I hold
The fleeting promise, chased so long in vain : 1

0, my love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run ;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears,
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain,

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