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We pass out from the city's feverish hum,

To find refreshment in the silent woods ; And nature, that is beautiful and dumb,

Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broodsYet, even there, a restless thought will steal To teach the indolent heart it still must feel.

Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon,

The waters tripping with their silver feet, The turning to the light of leaves in June,

And the light whisper as their edges meetStrange—that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, The spirit, walking in their midst alone.

There's no contentment in a world like this,

Save in forgetting the immortal dream; We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss,

That through the cloud-rists radiantly stream; Bird-like, the prisoned soul will lift its eye And pine till it is hooded from the sky.

THE TORN HAT.

(A PICTURE BY SULLY.)

. . . . “A leaf
Fresh flang upon a river, that will dance
Upon the wave that stealeth out its life,
Then sink of its own heaviness."

PHILIP SLINGSBY.

THERE's something in a noble boy,

A brave, free-hearted, careless one, With his unchecked, unbidden joy,

His dread of books and love of fun, And in his clear and ready smile, Unshaded by a thought of guile,

And unrepressed by sadnessWhich brings me to my childhood back, As if I trod its very track,

And felt its very gladness.

And yet it is not in his play,

When every trace of thought is lost, And not when you would call him gay,

That his bright presence thrills me most.

His shout may ring upon the hill, His voice be echoed in the hall,

His merry laugh like music trill, And I in sadness hear it all —

For, like the wrinkles on my brow,

I scarcely notice such things nowBut when, amid the earnest game,

He stops, as if he music heard,
And, heedless of his shouted name

As of the carol of a bird,
Stands gazing on the empty air
As if some dream were passing there-

'Tis then that on his face I look, His beautiful but thoughtful face,

And, like a long-forgotten book, Its sweet, familiar meanings trace,

Remembering a thousand things

Which passed me on those golden wings, Which time has fettered now

Things that came o’er me with a thrill,
And left me silent, sad, and still,
And threw upon my brow

A holier and a gentler cast,
That was too innocent to last.

”Tis strange how thought upon a child

Will, like a presence, sometimes press,
And when his pulse is beating wild,

And life itself is in excess-
When foot and hand, and ear and eye,
Are all with ardour straining high-

How. in his heart will spring
A feeling whose mysterious thrall
Is stronger, sweeter far than all ;

And on its silent wing,
How with the clouds he'll float away,
As wandering and as lost as they!

APRIL.

“ A violet by a mossy stone,

Half hidden from the eye,
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky."

WORDS WORTH.

I HAVE found violets. April hath come on,
And the cool winds feel softer, and the rain
Falls in the beaded drops of summer time.
You may hear birds at morning, and at eve
The tame dove lingers till the twilight falls,
Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing in
His beautiful bright neck, and, from the hills,
A murmur like the hoarseness of the sea
Tells the release of waters, and the earth

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