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Those visions high, which to forget
Were worse than never to have
known...

Not these; but souls found here and there,
Oases in our waste of sin.
When everything is well and fair,

Aud God remits his discipline,
Whose sweet subdual of the world,

Counsel to the

'Now, while she's changing,' said the Dean,

'Her bridal for her travelling dress, I'll preach allegiance to your queen!

Preaching's the trade which I profess;
And one more minute's mine! You know
I've paid my girl a father's debt,
And this last charge is all I owe.

She's yours; but I love more than yet
You can; such fondness only wakes

When time has raised the heart above
The prejudice of youth, which makes
Beauty conditional to love.
Prepare to meet the weak alarms
Of novel nearness; recollect
The eye which magnifies her charms
Is microscopic for defect.

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Young Husband.

Fear comes at first; but soon, rejoiced,
You'll find your strong and tender loves
Like holy rocks by Druids poised,

The least force shakes, but none re-
moves..

Her strength is your esteem; beware

of finding fault; her will's unnerved
By blame; from you 'twould be despair;
But praise that is not quite deserved
Will all her noble nature move

To make your utmost wishes true;
Yet think, while mending thus your love,
Of matching her ideal too!

The death of nuptial joy is sloth:

To keep your mistress in your wife, Keep to the very height your oath, And honour her with arduous life.'

Mr. Patmore was born at Woodford in Essex, July 2, 1823, son of Mr. P. G. Patmore (1786-1855), author of 'Personal Recollections of Deceased Celebrities,' &c. In 1846 Mr. Coventry Patmore was appointed one of the assistant-librarians of the British Museum, but retired from the office about 1868.

EDWARD ROBERT, LORD LYTTON, under the name of 'Owen Meredith,' has published two volumes of poetry- Clytemnestra,' 1855, and 'The Wanderer,' 1859. There are traces of sentimentalism and morbid feeling in the poems, but also fine fancy and graceful musical language. The poet is the only son of the first Lord Lytton, and was born November 8, 1831. The paternal taste in the selection of subjects from high life, with a certain voluptuous colouring, and a pseudo-melancholy, cynical air, has been reproduced in Owen Meredith,' though Tennyson was perhaps the favourite model. The young poet, however, had original merit enough to redeem such faults. He continued to write, and produced in succession 'Lucile,' a novel in verse, 1860; Serbski Pesme,' a translation of the national songs of Servia; The Ring of Amasis,' a prose romance, 1863: Chronicles and Characters,' two volumes of poems, chiefly historical, to which Mr. Lytton prefixed his own name; ‘Orval, or the Fool of Time,' a dramatic poem, &c. For about twenty years Lord Lytton was engaged in the diplomatic service abroad, and in 1876 was appointed Governor-general or Viceroy of India. In 1874 the noble poet published two volumes of Fables' in verse.

My little love do you remember,

The Chess-board.

Ere we were grown so sadly wise,
Those evenings in the bieak December,
Curtained warm from the snowy weather,
When you and I played chess together,

Checkmated by each other's eyes?
Ah! still I see your soft white hand
Hovering warm o'er queen and knight;
Brave pawns in valiant battle stand;
The double castles guard the wings;
The bishop, bent on distant things,

Moves sidling, through the fight.
Our fingers touch, our glances incet
And falter, falls your golden hair
Against my cheek; your bosom sweet
Is heaving; down the field, your queen

Rides slow her soldiery all between,
And checks me unaware.

Ah me! the little battle's done,
Dispersed is all its chivalry.

Full many a move, since then, have we
'Mid life's perplexing checkers made,
And many a game with fortune played-
What is it we have won ?

This, this, at least-if this alone-
That never, never, never more,
As in those old still nights of yore-

Ere we were grown so sadly wise-
Can you and I shut out the skies,
Shut out the world and wintry weather,

Aud eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, Play chess as then we played together!

Changes.

Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed.
Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not
The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead.
And then, we women cannot choose our lot.

Much must be borne which it is hard to bear:
Much given away which it were sweet to keep.
God help us all! who need, indeed. His care.
And yet, I know, the Shepherd loves his sheep.

My little boy begins to babble now

Upon my knee his earliest infant prayer.
He has his father's eager eyes. I know;
And, they say too, his mother's sunny hair.

But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee,
And I can feel his light breath come and go,
I think of one-Heaven help and pity me!-
Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago.

Who might have been-ah, what I dare not think!
We all are changed. God judges for us best.
God help us do our duty, and not shrink,
And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest.

But blame us women not, if some appear

Too cold at times; and some too gay and light.
Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear.
Who knows the past? and who can judge us right?

Ah, were we judged by what we might have been,
And not by what we are, too apt to fall!

My little child-he sleeps and smiles between

These thoughts and me. In heaven we shall know all !

The REV. HENRY FRANCIS LYTE (died in 1847) wrote 'Tales in Verse,' 1830; Poems;' 'Ballads;' &c. His sacred poetry is of supe

rior merit.

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There is in the lone, lone sea,

The Sailor's Grave.

A spot unmarked, but holy,
For there the gallant and the free,
In his ocean bed lies lowly.

Down, down, beneath the deep,
That oft in triumph bore him,
He sleeps a sound and peaceful sleep,
With the wild waves dashing o'er him.

He sleeps-he sleeps, serene and safe
From tempest and from billow,
Where storms that high above him chafe
Scarce rock his peaceful pillow.

The sea and him in death
They did not da e tó sever;

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And though no stone may tell
Thy name, thy worth, thy glory,
They rest in hearts that love thee well,
And they grace Britannia's story.

Hymn-'Abide with Me!→

Abide with me! fast falls the eventide;
The darkness thickens: Lord, with me abide!
When other helpers fail. and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless. O abide with me!

Swift to its close cbbs out life's little day;
Earth's joys grow dim. its glories pass away
Change and decay in all around I see:
O Thou who changest not, abide with me!

Not a brief glance I beg. a passing word,
But as Thou dwell'st with thy disciples, Lord-
Familiar. condescending, patient. free-
Come, not to sojou n, but abide with me!

Come, not in terrors, as the King of kings.
But kind and good, with healing on thy wings,
Tears for all woes. a heart for every plea:
Come, Friend of sinners, thus abide with me!

I need thy presence every passing hour:
What but Thy grace can foil the tempter's power?
Who like Thyself my guide and stay can be?
Through clouds and sunshine, O abide with me!

I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless;

Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness:

Where is death's sting? where. grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if Thou abide with me!

Reveal Thyself before my closing eyes,

Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies:
Heaven's morning breaks and earth's vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, Lord, abide with me!

CHARLES KENT (born in London in 1823) has published 'Dreamland, with other Poems,' 1862; and a collective edition of his ' Poems' was issued in 1870. Mr. Kent has also written several prose tales and essays.

Love's Calendar.

Talk of love in vernal hours,
When the landscape blushes
With the dawning glow of flowers,
While the early thrushes
Warble in the apple-tree;

When the primrose springing
From the green bank, fulls the bee,
On its blossom swinging.

Talk of love in summer-t de

When through bosky shallows Trills the streamlet-all its side Pranked with freckled mallows; When in mossy lair of wrens

Tiny eggs are warming; When above the reedy fens Dragon-gnats are swarming.

Talk of love in autumn days,
When the fruit, all mellow,
Drops amid the ripening rays,
While the leaflets yellow
Circle in the sluggish breeze
With their portents bitter;
When between the fading trees
Broader sunbeams glitter.

Talk of love in winter time,
When the hailstorm hurtles,
While the robin sparks of rime
Shakes from hardy myrtles,
Never speak of love with scorn,
Such were direct treason;
Love was made for eve and morn,
And for every season.

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

One of the best and most prolific of the American poetesses was MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY, born in Norwich, Connecticut, in 1791; died at Hartford in 1865. Maria Edgeworth and a host of critics have borne testimony to the poetic genius and moral influence of this accomplished woman.

The Early Blue-bird.

Blue-bird! on yon leafless tree,
Dost thou carol thus to me:
Spring is coming! Spring is here!'
Says't thou so, my birdie dear?
What is that, in misty shroud,
Stealing from the darkened cloud?
Lo! the snow-flakes' gathering mound
Settles o'er the whitened ground,
Yet thou singest, blithe and clear:
⚫ Spring is coming! Spring is here!'

Strik'st thou not too bold a strain?
Winds are piping o'er the plain;
Clouds are sweeping o'er the sky
With a black and threatening eye;
Urchins, by the frozen rill,
Wrap their mantles closer still;
Yon poor man, with doublet old,
Doth he shiver at the cold?
Hath he not a nose of blue?
Tell me, birdling, tell me true.

Midnight

Borne upon the ocean's foam,
Far from native land and home,
Midnight's curtain, dense with wrath,
Brooding o'er our venturous path,
While the mountain wave is rolling,
And the ship's bell faintly tolling:
Saviour! on the boisterous sea,
Bid us rest secure in Thee.

Spring's a maid of mirth and glee,
Rosy wreaths and revelry:
Hast thou wooed some winged love
To a nest in verdant grove?
Sung to her of greenwood bower,
Sunny skies that never lower ?
Lured her with thy promise fair
Of a lot that knows no care?
Pr'ythee, bird, in coat of blue,
Though a lover, tell her true.

Ask her if, when storms are long,
She can sing a cheerful song?
When the rude winds rock the tree,
If she 'll closer cling to thee?
Then the blasts that sweep the sky,
Unappalled shall pass thee by;
Though thy curtained chamber shew
Siftings of untimely snow.
Warm and glad thy heart shall be;
Love shall make it Spring for thee.

Thoughts at Sea.

Blast and surge, conflicting hoarse,
Sweep us on with headlong force;
And the bark, which tempests surge,
Moans and trembles at their scourge;
Yet, should wildest tempests swell,
Be Thou near, and all is well,
Saviour! on the stormy sea,
Let us find repose in Thee."

Hearts there are with love that burn
When to us afar they turn;
Eyes that shew the rushing tear
If our uttered names they hear :
Saviour! o'er the faithless main
Bring us to those homes again,
As the trembler, touched by Thee,
Safely trod the treacherous sea.

Wrecks are darkly spread below,
Where with lonely keel we go;
Gentle brows and bosoms brave
Those abysses richly pave;
If beneath the briny deep
We with them, should coldly sleep,
Saviour! o'er the whelming sea,
Take our ransomed souls to Thee.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

He

The Society of Friends, or Quakers, in America can boast of a poet who more than rivals their English representative, Bernard Barton. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, born near Haverhill, Massachusetts, in 1808, passed his early years on his father's farm; but after he came of age was chiefly engaged in literary pursuits. edited several newspapers, and was an active opponent of negro slavery. He has published Legends of New England,' in prose and verse, 1831; a volume of Ballads,' 1838; The Stranger in Lowell' (prose essays), 1845; 'Voices of Freedom,' 1849; Songs of Labour,' 1850; National Lyrics,' 1865; 'Maud Müller,' 1866; and various other poetical tales and sketches. There is a neat compact edition of his collected poetical works in two small volumes (the Merrimack Edition'), 1869. In 1873 he published 'The Pennsylvanian Pilgrim, and other Poems,' which shewed that his fine vein of thought and melody was unimpaired.

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The Robin.

My old Welsh neighbour over the way
Crept slowly out in the sun of spring,
Pushed from her ears the locks of gray,
And listened to hear the Robin sing.

Her grandson, playing at marbles, stop-
ped,

And, cruel in sport as boys will be, Tossed a stone at the bird. who hopped From bough to bough in the apple-tree.

"Nay!' said the grandmother, 'have you
not heard,

My poor, bad boy, of the fiery pit,
And how, drop by drop, this merciful

bird

Carries the water that quenches it?

'He brings cool dew in his little bill, And lets it fall on the souls of gin:

Barbara

Up from the meadows, rich with corn,
Clear from the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand,
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

You can see the mark on his red breast still

Of fires that scorch as he drops it in.

'My poor Bron rhuddyn! my breast-
'burned bird,

Singing so sweetly from limb to limb,
Very dear to the heart of Our Lord
Is he who pities the lost like him!'
'Amen!' I said to the beautiful myth;

Sing, bird of God, in my heart as well:
Each good thought is a drop wherewith
To cool and lessen the fires of hell.

'Prayers of love like rain-drops fall,
Tears of pity are cooling dew,
And dear to the heart of Our Lord are all
Who suffer like Him in the good they
do!'

Fritchie.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep;
Fair as a garden of the Lord

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde.

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