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BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. I never see a young hand hold The starry bunch of white and gold, But something warm and fresh will start About the region of my heart. My smile expires into a sigh; I feel a struggling in the eye, 'Twixt hạmid drop and sparkling ray, Till rolling tears have won their way; For soul and brain will travel back

Through Memory's chequered mazes, To days when I but trod Life's track

For ‘Buttercups and Daisies.'

Tell me, ye men of wisdom rare,
Of sober speech and silver hair ;
Who carry counsel, wise and sage,
With all the gravity of age :
Oh, say, do ye not like to hear
The accents ringing in your ear,

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When sportive urchins laugh and shout,
Tossing those precious flowers about,
Springing with bold and gleesome bound,

Proclaiming joy that crazes ;
And chorusing the magic sound

Of ‘Buttercups and Daisies ?'
Are there, I ask, beneath the sky
Blossoms that knit so strong a tie
With childhood's love? Can any please
Or light the infant eye like these ?
No, no; there's not a bud on earth,
Of richest tint, or warmest birth,
Can ever fling such zeal and zest
Into the tiny hand and breast.
Who does not recollect the hours

When burning words and praises
Were lavished on those shining flowers,

Buttercups and Daisies ?'

There seems a bright and fairy spell
About their very names to dwell;
And though old Time has marked my brow
With care and thought, I love them now.
Smile, if ye will, but some heart-strings
Are closest linked to simplest things ;
And these wild-flowers will hold mine fast,
Till love, and life, and all be past :
And then the only wish I have

Is, that the one who raises
The turf-sod o'er me plant my grave
With ‘Buttercups and Daisies.'

Eliza Cook.

THE GOLDEN MEAN.
Receive, dear friend, the truths I teach,
So shalt thou live beyond the reach

Of adverse Fortune's power :
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep

Along the treacherous shore. He that holds fast the golden mean, And lives contentedly between

The little and the great, Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,

Imbittering all his state. The tallest pines feel most the power Of wintry blast ; the loftiest tower

Comes heaviest to the ground; The bolts that spare the mountain's side, His cloud-capt eminence divide,

And spread the ruin round,

The well-informed philosopher
Rejoices with a wholesome fear,

And hopes in spite of pain ;
If winter bellow from the north,
Soon the sweet spring comes dancing forth,

And Nature laughs again.
What if thy heaven be overcast ?
The dark appearance will not last;

Expect a brighter sky:
The god that strings the silver bowl
Awakes sometimes the muses too,

And lays his arrows by.

If hindrances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,

And let thy strength be seen ;

WORK IS HOLY.

But, oh! if Fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,
Take half thy canvas in.

Cowper.
The god that strings the silver bow. and arrows. But he was also the

Apollo was, in Greek mythology, god of the lyre, and the leader of deemed the punishing god, where the Muses. fore he is represented with bow |

ON HIMSELF.
A wearied pilgrim I have wandered here,
Twice five-and-twenty, bate 1 me but one year ;
Long I have lasted in this world ; 'tis true,
But yet those years that I have lived, but few.
Who by his gray hairs doth his lustres 2 tell,
Lives not those years, but he that lives them well :
One man has reached his sixty years, but he
Of all those three-score has not lived half three:
He lives who lives to virtue; men who cast
Their ends for pleasure, do not live, but last.

Herrick. 1 Bate, to abate, lessen, subtract. ?Lustres, periods of five years.

WORK IS HOLY.
Work while life is given,

Faint not although 'tis hard :
Work is the will of heaven,
And peace is the reward

For work is holy !

What though thy lot be hidden,

And proud ones pass thee by !
Feel duty as God-bidden,
Act as beneath His eye

For work is holy !

Cleave to thy humble place,

Ennoble it with thy zeal, Work with a manful grace, Make fruitless cumberers feel

That work is holy !

Work while life is given,

Nor shrink though hardship scars,
True suffering fits for heaven,
There sin alone debars-

For work is holy !

Angels' ears now listen

Thy earth-spurned plaintive tale,
Angels' eyes shall glisten
While they thy scars unveil-

For work is holy !

They 'll know these are the proof

That thou hast striven well,
Nor idly stood aloof,
While other brave ones fell !

For work is holy!

Work, while life is given,

Pine not although 'tis hard, Work is the will of heaven, And peace is the reward.

All work is holy !

Thomas Knox.

CASABIANCA.1
The boy stood on the burning deck,

Whence all but him had fled ;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck

Shone round him o'er the dead.

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