Hard by soft night of summer bowers is seen, With trellised vintage curtaining a cove

Whose diamond mirror paints the amber-green, The glooming bunches, and the boughs above. Finches, and moths, and gold-dropt dragon-flies

Dip in their wings, and a young village-daughter

Is bending with her pitcher o'er the water; Her round arm imaged, and her laughing eyes,

And the fair brow amid the flowing hair, Look like the nymph's, for Hylas coming up,

Pictured among the leaves and fruitage there; Or the boy's self a-drowning with his cup. Up through the vines, her urn upon her head,

Her feet unsandal'd, and her dark locks free,

She takes her way, a lovely thing to see ; And like a skylark starting from its bed,

A glancing meteor, or a tongue of flame, Or virgin waters gushing from their springs,

Her hope flies up-her heart is pure of blameOn wings of sound: she sings ! oh how she sings !


Oh, there's a power to make each hour

As sweet as Heaven design'd it ;
Nor need we roam to bring it home,

Though few there be that find it !
We seek too high for things close by,

And lose what Nature found us ;
For life hath here no charm so dear

As home and friends around us !
We oft destroy the present joy

For future hopes—and praise them;
Whilst flowers as sweet bloom at our feet,

If we'd but stoop to raise them!
For things afar still sweeter are,

When Youth's bright spell bath bound us ;
But soon we're taught that earth hath nought

Like home and friends around us !

The friends that speed in time of need,

When Hope's last reed is shaken,
To show us still, that, come what will,

We are not quite forsaken!
Though all were night, if but the light

From friendship's altar crown'd us,
'Twould prove the bliss of earth was this

Our home and friends around us !


By Sir E. BULWER LYTTON. DESOLATE tree! why are thy branches bare ?

What hast thou done
To win strange winter from the summer air,

Frost from the sun ?
Thou wert not churlish in thy palmier year

Unto the herd;
Tenderly gavest thou shelter to the deer,

Home to the bird.
And, ever once the earliest of the grove,

Thy smiles were gay,
Opening thy blossoms with the haste of love

To the young May.
Then did the bees, and all the insect-wings

Around thee gleam ;-
Feaster and darling of the gilded things

That dwell i' the beam.

Thy liberal course, poor prodigal, is sped;

How lonely now! -
How bird and beé, light parasites, have fled

The leafless bough!
Tell me, sad tree, why are thy branches bare ?

What hast thou done To win strange winter from the summer air,

Frost from the sun ?

"Never," replied that forest-hermit lone

(Old truth and endless !)
“Never for evil done, but fortune flown,

Are we left friendless.

" Yet wholly nor for winter nor for storm

Doth Love depart!
We are not all forsaken till the worm

Creeps to the heart!

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" Ah! nought without, within thee if decay,

Can heal or hurt thee;
Nor boots it, if thy heart itself betray,

Who may desert thee!”



Caroline. See, the moon bangs there on the verge of stars, Like a bright vestal at a temple porch.

Ferdinand. Ah, 'tis a blissful night! The universe
Is a great rushing hymn of praise to God.
My heart is singing with the bappy spheres;
Not a string jars, but all is harmony.
Night is the beautiful black slave of God,
And bends before him ever wrapt in awe,
While her great heart throbs thanks in burning stars!



Some books are drenched sands,
On which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps,
Like a wreck'd argosy. What power in books !
They mingle gloom and splendour, as I've oft,
In thund'rous sunsets, seen the thunder-piles
Seam'd with dull fire and fiercest glory-rents.
They awe me to my knees, as if I stood
In presence of a king. They give me tears ;

Such glorious tears as Eve's fair daughters shed,
When first they clasp'd a Son of God, all bright
With burning plumes and splendours of the sky,
In zoning heaven of their milky arms.
How few read books aright! Most souls are shut
By sense from grandeur, as a man who snores
Night-capp'd and wrapt in blankets to the nose,
Is shut out from the night, which, like a sea,
Breaketh for ever on a strand of stars.
Lady, in book-world have I ever dwelt:
This book has domed my being like a sky.


The joys of Love, if they should ever last
Without affliction or disquietness,
That worldly chances do amongst them cast,
Would be on earth too great a blessedness;
Liker to Heaven than mortal wretchedness :
Therefore the winged God, to let man weet
That here on earth is no sure happiness,

A thousand sours has temper'd with one sweet
To make it seem more dear and dainty, as is meet.


Let us go forth, and resolutely dare
With sweat of brow to toil our little day,
And if a tear fall on the task of care
In memory of those spring hours pass'd away
Brush it not by!
Our hearts to God! to brother men,
And labour, blessing, prayer, and then
To these a sign!


WOMAN. The bleakest rock upon the loneliest heath Feels in its barrenness some touch of Spring, And in the April dew, or beam of May, Its moss and lichens freshen and reviveAnd thus the heart most sear'd to human pleasure, Melts at the tear, joys at the smile of woman.

Sir Joseph BEAUMONT. b. 1582.


Each pretty bud repeats itself, but still
Seems from its little shell to venture out
In hues all newly-chosen ; every note
Soft warble, liquid gush, or joyful shout

Does come with a first beauty on the ear,
Though 'tis the self-same song oft heard in the old year.


А воок.
It ceased, yet still the sails made on

A pleasant noise till noon,
A noise like of a hidden brook

In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night

Singeth a quiet tune.



If haply from his guarded breast
Should steal the unsuspected sigh,
And memory, an unbidden guest,
With former passions fill'd his eye.
Then pious Hope and Duty poised,
The wisdom of the unerring sway,
And, while to heaven his eye he raised,
Its silent waters stole away.



The old thoughts never die. Immortal dreams
Outlive their dreamers and are ours for aye:
No thought once form'd and utter'd can expire.


Thy God hath said 'tis good for thee
To walk by faith and not by sight;
Take it on trust a little while,
Soon shalt thou read the mystery right
In the bright sunshine of His smile.


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