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THE TOWN CHILD AND THE COUNTRY CHILD.

air

HILD of the country, free as The dew beneath the sloe-thorn where
She bred her twins, the timorous hare,
The knoll wrought o'er with wild bluebells
Where brown bees build their balıny cells,

Art thou, and as the sun-
shine fair;

Born like the lily, where The greenwood stream, the shady pool,
the dew
Where trouts leap when the day is cool.
Lies odorous when the day The shilfa's nest, that seems to be
A portion of the sheltering tree,
And other marvels which my verse
Can find no language to rehearse.

is new;

Fed 'mid the May-flowers

like the bee,

Nursed to sweet music on

the knee,

Lulled in the breast to that sweet tune
Which winds make 'mong the woods of June.
I sing of thee: 'tis sweet to sing
Of such a fair and gladsome thing.

Child of the town, for thee I sigh:
A gilded roof's thy golden sky;
A carpet is thy daisied sod;

A narrow street thy boundless wood;
Thy rushing deer's the clattering tramp
Of watchmen; thy best light's a lamp;
Through smoke, and not through trellised

vines

And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines.
I sing of thee in sadness where
Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair?

Child of the country, thy small feet
Tread on strawberries red and sweet;
With thee I wander forth to see
The flowers which most delight the bee,
The bush o'er which the throstle sung
In April while she nursed her young,

Child of the town, for thee, alas !
Glad Nature spreads nor flowers nor grass;
Birds build no nests, nor in the sun
Glad streams come singing as they run;
A Maypole is thy blossomed tree,
A beetle is thy murmuring bee;
Thy bird is caged, thy dove is where
The poulterer dwells, beside the hare;
Thy fruit is plucked, and by the pound
Hawked, clamorous, o'er the city round;
No roses twin-born on the stalk
Perfume thee in thy evening walk;
No voice of birds, but to thee comes
The mingled din of cars and drums,
And startling cries, such as are rife
When wine and wassail waken strife.

Child of the country, on the lawn
I see thee like the bounding fawn,
Blithe as the bird which tries its wing
The first time on the wings of Spring,
Bright as the sun when from the cloud
He comes as cocks are crowing loud;
Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams,
Now groping trouts in lucid streams,

Now spinning like a millwheel round,
Now hunting Echo's empty sound,
Now climbing up some old tall tree

For climbing's sake: 'tis sweet to thee
To sit where birds can sit alone,
Or share with thee thy venturous throne.

Child of the town and bustling street,
What woes and snares await thy feet!
Thy paths are paved for five long miles,
Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles,
Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke,
Which shrouds thee like a mourning-cloak,
And thou art cabined and confined
At once from sun and dew and wind;
Or set thy tottering feet but on
Thy lengthened walks of slippery stone:
The coachman there careering reels
With goaded steeds and maddening wheels,
And Commerce pours each prosing son
In pelf's pursuit, and halloos "Run!"
While flushed with wine and stung at play
Men rush from darkness into day;

The stream's too strong for thy small bark:
There naught can sail save what is stark.
Fly from the town, sweet child, for health
Is happiness and strength and wealth;
There is a lesson in each flower,
A story in each stream and bower;
On every herb o'er which you tread
Are written words which, rightly read,
Will lead you from earth's fragrant sod
To hope and holiness and God.

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And lockt men's looks within her golden Hath from the cunning workman's pencil flown

hair,

These lips look fresh and lively as her own,

Seeming to move and speak. Alas! now I Neither to be so great as to be envied,

see

Nor yet so poor the world should pity me.

THOMAS NASH.

WHAT LOVE IS LIKE.

LOVE is like a lamb, and love is like a

The reason why fond women love to buy
Adulterate complexion; here 'tis read:
False colors last after the true be dead.
Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks,
Of all the graces dancing in her eyes,
Of all the music set upon her tongue,
Of all that was past woman's excellence
In her white bosom,-look! a painted board
Circumscribes all. Earth can no bliss af-
ford:
Nothing of her but this! This cannot speak; Love is much in winning, yet is more in
It has no lap for me to rest upon,

lion :

Fly from Love, he fights; fight, then does he fly on;

Love is all on fire, and yet is ever freezing;

leesing;

No lip worth tasting. Here the worms will Love is ever sick, and yet is never dying;

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But cannot shield the tempest from them- Thou prayest God to hasten to thine aid;

selves.

I love to dwell betwixt the hills and dales,

Immortal is thy soul: thy heart will heal.

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