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But on a day of wintry skies A withered rose slipped from my book;

And as I caught its faint perfume

The soul of summer straight forsook The little tenement it loved,

And filled the world with song and bloom, Missed, in their season, by my sense, So found my heart its recompense.

SIR ROBERT AYTON.

FAIR AND UNWORTHY.

I DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee,

Had I not found the lightest prayer That lips could speak, had power to move thee:

But I can let thee now alone,
As worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou'rt sweet; yet find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favors are but like the wind,
That kisses everything it meets;
And since thou canst with more than

one,

Thou'rt worthy to be kissed by none.

The morning rose that untouched stands

Armed with her briers, how sweetly smells!

But plucked and strained through ruder hands,

No more her sweetness with her dwells,

But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her one by one.

Such fate, erelong, will thee betide, When thou hast handled been awhile,

Like sere flowers to be thrown aside; And I will sigh, while some will smile,

To see thy love for more than one Hath brought thee to be loved by

none.

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Ere History was born, the poet

sung

How godlike Thone knew thy compelling power,

And ancient Ceres, by strange sor

rows wrung,

Sought sweet oblivion from thy
healing flower.

Giver of sleep! Lord of the Land of
Dreams!

O simple weed, thou art not what
man deems.

The clear-eyed Greeks saw oft their god of sleep

Wandering about through the black midnight hours, Soothing the restless couch with slumbers deep,

And scattering thy medicated flow. ers,

Till hands were folded for their final

rest,

PARK BENJAMIN.

PRESS ON.

PRESS on! there's no such word as fail!

Press nobly on! the goal is near,Ascend the mountain! breast the gale!

Look upward, onward,

fear!

never

Why shouldst thou faint? Heaven smiles above,

Though storm and vapor intervene; That sun shines on, whose name is Love,

Serenely o'er Life's shadow'd scene.

Press on! surmount the rocky steeps, Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch;

He fails alone who feebly creeps;

He wins, who dares the hero's march.

Clasping white poppies o'er a pulse- Be thou a hero! let thy might

less breast.

We have a clearer vision; every hour

Kind hearts and hands the poppy juices mete,

And panting sufferers bless its kindly power,

And weary ones invoke its peaceful sleep.

Health has its rose, and grape and joyful palm,

The poppy to the sick is wine and balm.

I sing the poppy! The frail snowy weed!

The flower of mercy! that within its heart

Doth keep a drop serene" for human need,

A drowsy balm for every bitter

smart.

For happy hours the rose will idly

blow

and woe.

Tramp on eternal snows its way, And through the ebon walls of night Hew down a passage unto day.

Press on! if Fortune play thee false

To-day, to-morrow she'll be true; Whom now she sinks she now exalts,

Taking old gifts and granting new. The wisdom of the present hour

Makes up for follies past and gone,

To weakness strength succeeds, and power

From frailty springs, -press on! press on!

Press on! what though upon the ground

Thy love has been poured out like rain?

That happiness is always found

The sweetest, which is born of

pain.

Oft 'mid the forest's deepest glooms, A bird sings from some blighted tree,

The poppy hath a charm for pain | And, in the dreariest desert, blooms

A never-dying rose for thee.

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I look around on earth and sky,
And Thee and ever Thee,
With open heart and open eyes
How can I fail to see?

My ear drinks in from field and fell
Life's rival floods of glee:
Where finds the priest his private hell
When all is full of Thee?

Oh no! no! no!
Though flocks of geese
Give Heaven's high ear no peace:
I still enjoy a lease

Of happy thoughts from Thee.

My faith is strong; out of itself
It grows erect and free;

No Talmud on the Rabbi's shelf
Gives amulets to me.

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Still let me turn on earth a childlike gaze,

And trust the whispered charities that bring

Tidings of human truth; with inward praise

Small Greek I know, nor Hebrew Watch the weak motion of each com

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O pious quack! thy pills are good;
But mine as good may be,
And healthy men on healthy food
Live without you or me.
Good lady! let the doer do!
Thought is a busy bee,

Nor honey less what it doth brew,
Though very gall to thee.

Oh no! no! no!

mon thing.

And find it glorious still let me

raise

On wintry wrecks, an altar to the
Spring.

HIDDEN JOYS.

PLEASURES lie thickest where no pleasures seem:

There's not a leaf that falls upon the ground

But holds some joy, of silence or of sound,

Some sprite begotten of a summer dream.

Though councils decree and de- The very meanest things are made

clare;

Like a tree in the open air,

The soul its foliage fair

Spreads forth, O God, to Thee!

LAMAN BLANCHARD.

WISHES OF YOUTH.

GAYLY and greenly let my seasons

run:

And should the war-winds of the world uproot

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But a high pathway into freer air,

mock at these.

leave the past, if past indeed

there be.

I would not know it. I would know

but thee.

THE TWO HIGHWAYMEN.

Lift up with golden hopes and duties I LONG have had a quarrel set with

fair.

He showed how wisdom turns its hours to years, Feeding the heart on joys instead of fears,

And worships God in smiles, and not in tears.

His thoughts were as a pyramid uppiled,

On whose far top an angel stood and smiled

Yet in his heart was he a simple child.

Time,

Because he robbed me. Every day of life

Was wrested from me after bitter strife,

I never yet could see the sun go down

But I was angry in my heart, nor hear

The leaves fall in the wind without a

tear

Over the dying summer. I have known

No truce with Time nor Time's accomplice, Death.

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