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Which of Thy kindness Thou has sent;

And my content

Makes these and my beloved beet

To be more sweet.

'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
With guiltless mirth,

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand
That sows my land.

All this, and better dost Thou send
Me for this end-

That I should render for my part
A thankful heart,

Which, fir'd with incense, I resign'
As wholly Thine;

But the acceptance, that must be,
O Lord, of Thee!

ROBERT HERRICK.

THE STRANGER ON THE SILL.

Between broad fields of wheat and corn
Is the lowly home where I was born;
The peach-tree leans against the wall,
And the woodbine wanders over all;
There is the shaded doorway still-
But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill.

There is the barn-and, as of yore,
I can smell the hay from the open door,
And see the busy swallows throng,
And hear the peewee's mournful song;
But the stranger comes-oh! painful proof-
His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.

There is the orchard-the very trees
Where my childhood knew long hours of ease,
And watched the shadowy moments run,
Till my life imbibed more shade than sun;
The swing from the bough still sweeps the air—
But the stranger's children are swinging there.

He bubbles, the shady spring below,

With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow;

"Twas there I found the calamus root,
And watched the minnows poise and shoot,
And heard the robin lave his wing-
But the stranger's bucket is at the spring.

Oh ye who daily cross the sill,
Step lightly, for I love it still;

And when you crowd the old barn eaves,
Then think what countless harvest sheaves
Have passed within that scented door,
To gladden eyes that are no more.

Deal kindly with these orchard trees,
And when your children crowd your knees,
Their sweetest fruit they shall impart,
As if old memories stirred their heart;
To youthful sport still leave the swing,
And in sweet reverence hold the spring.

T. B. READ.

THE INVITATION.

FROM THE GERMAN.

I have a cottage by the hill,

It stands upon a meadow green,
Behind it flows a murmuring rill,
Cool-rooted moss and flowers between.

Beside the cottage stands a tree,

That flings its shadow o'er the eaves;

And scarce the sunshine visits me,

Save when a light wind rifts the leaves.

A nightingale sings on a spray,

Through the sweet summer time night-long,
And evening travelers, on their way,

Linger to hear her plaintive song.

Thou maiden with the yellow hair,
The winds of life are sharpened chill,

Will thou not seek a shelter there,
In yon lone cottage by the hill ?

Translation of S. H. WHITMAN.

JOHANN W. L. GLEIM, 1719-1803.

ICELANDIC LINES.

FROM THE DISCOURSE OF ODIN

On guests who come with frozen knees
Bestow the genial warmth of fire;
Who has walked far and waded streams
Needs cheering food and drier clothes.

To him about to join your board,
Clear water bring to cleanse his hands,
And treat him freely, would you win
The kindly word, the thankful heart.

Translation of W. TAYLOR.

DOMESTIC PEACE.

Tell me on what holy ground
May Domestic Peace be found-
Halcyon daughter of the skies!
Far, on fearful wings she flies,
From the pomp of scepter'd state,
From the rebel's noisy hate.
In a cottaged vale she dwells,
Listening to the Sabbath bells!
Still around her steps are seen
Spotless Honor's meeker mien,
Love, the sire of pleasing fears,
Sorrow smiling through her tears,
And, conscious of the past employ,
Memory, bosom-spring of joy.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

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The hunt is up, the hunt is up!
Sing merrily we, the hunt is up!

Then hie apace

Unto the chase,

Hey, nonny, nony, no!
While every thing

Doth sweetly sing

Hey, trolilo, trololilo,

The hunt is up, the hunt is up!

Sing merrily we, the hunt is up!

Anonymous.

HOUNDS.

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind;
So flew'd, so sanded, and their heads are hung
With ears that sweep away the morning dew;
Crook-knee'd and dew-lapp'd, like Thessalian bulls ;
Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells,
Each under each: a cry more tunable

Was never halloo'd to, nor cheered with horn.

W. SHAKSPEARE

DEER LEAP.

In our way to Hound's-Down we rode past a celebrated spot, called the Deer Leap. Here a stag was once shot, which, in the agony of death, collecting his force, gave a bound which astonished those who saw it. It was immediately commemorated by two posts, which were fixed at the two extremities of the leap, where they still remain. space between them is somewhat more than eighteen yards.

The

GILPIN'S "New Forest"

THE

HARE.

FROM "THE CHASE."

Delightful scene!

Where all around is gay, men, horses, dogs,

And in each smiling countenance appears
Fresh blooming health and universal joy.

Huntsman! lead on-behind, the clustering pack

Submiss attend, hear with respect thy whip

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