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The poised hawk calls thee, Village With millions, from a world of woes, Patriarch !

Unto the land which no one knows? He calls thee to his mountains! Up, away!

Though myriads go with him who goes Up, up, to Stanedge! higher still Alone he goes where no wind blows, ascend,

Unto the land which no one knows. Till kindred rivers, from the summit gray,

For all must go where no wind blows, To distant seas their course in beauty And none can go for him who goes; bend,

None, none return whence And, like the lives of human millions,

knows. blend Disparted waves in one immensity ! Yet why should he who shrieking goes

With millions, from a world of woes,

Reunion seek with it or those?
A POET'S EPITAPH.

Alone with God, where no wind blows, STOP, Mortal! Here thy brother lies, And Death, his shadow - doomed, he The Poet of the Poor.

goes : His books were rivers, woods, and skies, That God is there the shadow shows.

The meadow and the moor. His teachers were the torn hearts' wail, Oh, shoreless Deep, where no wind The tyrant and the slave,

blows ! The street, the factory, the jail,

And, thou, oh Land which no The palace - and the grave!

knows ! The meanest thing, earth's feeblest That God is All, His shadow shows.

worm,
He feared to scorn or hate;
And honored in a peasant's form
The equal of the great.

THE HAPPY LOT.
But if he loved the rich who make
The poor man's little more,

BLESS'd is the hearth where daughters Ill could he praise the rich who take

gird the fire, From plundered labor's store.

And sons that shall be happier than A hand to do, a head to plan,

their sire, A heart to feel and dare

Who sees them crowd around his evenTell man's worst foes, here lies the man

ing chair, Who drew them as they are.

While love and hope inspire his word-
Oh, from their home paternal may they

go,
PLAINT.

With little to unlearn, though much to

know ! DARK, deep, and cold the current flows Unto the sea where no wind blows,

Them, may no poison’d tongue, no evil Seeking the land which no one knows.

eye,

Curse for the virtues that refuse to die; O'er its sad gloom still comes and goes

The generous heart, the independent The mingled wail of friends and foes,

mind, Borne to the land which no one knows. Till truth, like falsehood, leaves a sting

behind! Why shrieks for help yon wretch, who May temperance crown their feast, and goes

friendship share !

less prayer.

May Pity come, Love's sister-spirit,

there! May they shun baseness as they shun

the grave! May they be frugal, pious, humble,

brave! Sweet peace be theirs — the mo ght

of the breast And occupation, and alternate rest; And dear to care and thought the usual

me

walk;

Theirs be no flower that withers on the

stalk, But roses cropp'd, that shall not bloom

in vain; And hope's bless'd sun, that sets to rise

again. Be chaste their nuptial bed, their home

be sweet, Their floor resound the tread of little

feet; Bless'd beyond fear and fate, if bless'd

by thee, And heirs, O Love! of thine Eternity.

And often to his mother

He spoke, or tried to speak: I felt as if from slumber

I never could awake:
Oh, Mother, give me something

To cherish for your sake!
A cold, dead we is

A heavy weight, like lead :
My hands and feet seem sinking

Quite through my little bed :
I am so tired, so weary

With weariness I ache:
Oh, Mother, give me something

To cherish for your sake!
Some little token give me,

Which I may kiss in sleep — To make me feel I'm near you,

And bless you though I weep. My sisters say I'm better

But, then, their heads they shake: Oh, Mother, give me something

To cherish for your sake! Why can't I see the poplar,

The moonlit stream and hill, Where, Fanny says, good angels

Dream, when the woods are still? Why can't I see you, Mother?

I surely am awake:
Oh, haste! and give me something

To cherish for your sake!”
His little bosom heaves not;

The fire hath left his cheek; The fine chord — is it broken?

The strong chord — could it break? Ah, yes ! the loving spirit

Hath wing'd his flight away: A mother and two sisters

Look down on lifeless clay.

LOVE STRONG IN DEATH. We watch'd him, while the moonlight,

Beneath the shadow'd hill, Seem'd dreaming of good angels,

And all the woods were still.
The brother of two sisters

Drew painfully his breath :
A strange fear had come o'er him,

For love was strong in death.
The fire of fatal fever

Burn'd darkly on his cheek,

LEIGH HUNT.

1784-1859. [BORN at Southgate, Middlesex, October 19, 1784; was educated at Christ's Hospital; con. tributed to various periodicals; was an editor of The Examiner, 1808; was imprisoned for libel on the Prince Regent, 1811; visited Byron and Shelley in Italy, 1822; received a pension from the Crown, 1847; died August 28, 1859. Besides many works in prose, he published Juvenilia, 1801; The Feast of the Poets, 1814; The Descent of Liberty, A viask, 1815; The Story of Rimini, 1816; Foliage, 1818; Poetical Works, 1832; Captain Sword and Captain Pen, 1835; A Legend of Florence, 1840; The Palfrey, 1842; Stories in Verse, 1855., For the bibliography of Leigh Hunt see “ List of the Writings of William Hazlitt and Leigh Hunt, chronologically arranged with notes, &c., by Alexander Ireland," 1868.]

and near,

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE MORNING AT RAVENNA. ANGEL.

'Tis morn, and never did a lovelier ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe in

day crease)

Salute Ravenna from its leafy bay: Awoke one night from a deep dream of For a warm eve, and gentle rains at peace,

night, And saw, within the moonlight in his Have left a sparkling welcome for the room,

light, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, And April, with his white hands wet An angel, writing in a book of gold ::

with flowers, Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem Dazzles the bride-maids looking from bold,

the towers : And to the presence in the room he Green vineyards and fair orchards, far

said, “ What writest thou?” — The vision Glitter with drops, and heaven is sapraised its head,

phire clear, And, with a look made of all sweet And the lark rings it, and the pine trees accord,

glow, Answered, “ The names of those who And odors from the citrons come and love the Lord.”

go, “ And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, And all the landscape — earth, and sky, not so,

and sea Replied the angel. Abou spoke more Breathes like a bright-eyed face that low,

laughs out openly. But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then,

The seats with boughs are shaded from Write me as one that loves his fellow

above men."

Of bays and roses trees of wit and

love; The angel wrote, and vanished. The And in the midst, fresh whistling through

next night It came again with a great wakening The lightsome fountain starts from out

light, And showed the names whom love of Clear and compact; till, at its height God had blessed,

o'errun, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the It shakes its loosening silver in the

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JOHN WILSON
(CHRISTOPHER NORTH).

1785-1854. [BORN at Paisley: An eminent Scotch poet and essayist, who received his education at Oxford. After putting forth some minor lyrical attempts, he published in 1812 The Isle of Patmos, which was well received. In 1816, he produced The City of the Plague; in 1820 was nominated to the chair of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh. In 1825 he began the celebrated Noctes Ambrosianæ under the name of Christopher North. He also wrote numerous political articles and literary criticisms for Blackwood's Magazine, which was started as an outlet for Scottish Toryism. Died at Edinburgh in 1854.]

Like that of dreamer murmuring in his THE SABBATH-DAY.

sleep; WHEN by God's inward light, a happy

'Tis partly the billow, and partly the air child,

That lies like a garment floating fair I walk'd in joy, as in the open air,

Above the happy deep. It seem'd to my young thought the Sab

The sea, I ween, cannot be fann'd bath smiled

By evening freshness from the land,

For the land it is far away; With glory and with love. So still, so

But God hath will'd that the sky-born fair, The heavens look'd ever on that hal

In the centre of the loneliest seas That, without aid of memory, something

Should ever sport and play. there

The mighty Moon she sits above,

Encircled with a zone of love,
Had surely told me of its glad return.
How did my little heart at evening burn,

A zone of dim and tender light

That makes her wakeful eye more When, fondly seated on my father's knee,

bright:

She seems to shine with a sunny ray, Taught by the lip of love, I breathed the

And the night looks like a mellow'd prayer, Warm from the fount of infant piety!

day! Much is my spirit changed; for years

The gracious Mistress of the Main have brought

Hath now an undisturbed reign, Intenser feeling and expanded thought;

And from her silent throne looks down, - Yet, must I envy every child I see!

As upon children of her own,
On the waves that lend their gentle

breast

In gladness for her couch of rest!
THE MIDNIGHT OCEAN.

breeze

low'd morn,

THE EVENING CLOUD.

It is the midnight hour: the beau

teous sea, Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven

discloses,
While many a sparkling star, in quiet

glee,
Far down within the watery sky reposes.
As if the Ocean's heart were stirr'd
With inward life, a sound is heard,

A cloud lay cradled near the setting

sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided

snow : Long had I watch'd the glory moving

on

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