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JOHN WILSON.

[1785-1854.]

THE EVENING CLOUD.

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided

snow:

Long had I watched the glory moving on

O'er the still radiance of the lake below.

Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated

slow! Even in its very motion there was rest; While every breath of eve that chanced to blow

Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul, To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given;

And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onwards to the golden gates of heaven,

Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies.

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The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it,

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell,

The cot of my father, the dairy-house

nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well,

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

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Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well,

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well.

How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it,

As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!

Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt
me to leave it,

Though filled with the nectar that
Jupiter sips.

And now, far removed from the loved
habitation,

The tears of regret will intrusively

swell,

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AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER.

THE rain is o'er. How dense and bright
Yon pearly clouds reposing lie!
Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight,
Contrasting with the dark blue sky!

The moss-covered bucket, which hung in In grateful silence earth receives

the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a

treasure;

The general blessing; fresh and fair, Each flower expands its little leaves, As glad the common joy to share.

For often at noon, when returned from The softened sunbeams pour around

the field,

A fairy light, uncertain, pale;

The wind flows cool; the scented ground
Is breathing odors on the gale.
Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile,
Methinks some spirit of the air
Might rest, to gaze below awhile,

Then turn to bathe and revel there.

The sun breaks forth; from off the scene
Its floating veil of mist is flung;
And all the wilderness of green

With trembling drops of light is hung.
Now gaze on Nature, -vet the same,
Glowing with life, by breezes fanned,
Luxuriant, lovely, as she came,
Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand.

Hear the rich music of that voice,

Which sounds from all below, above; She calls her children to rejoice,

And round them throws her arms oflove.

Drink in her influence; low-born care, And all the train of mean desire, Refuse to breathe this holy air,

And mid this living light expire.

CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.

[1787-1854-]

MARINER'S HYMN.

LAUNCH thy bark, mariner!
Christian, God speed thee!
Let loose the rudder-bands, -
Good angels lead thee!
Set thy sails warily,
Tempests will come;
Steer thy course steadily:
Christian, steer home!

Look to the weather-bow,

Breakers are round thee;
Let fall the plummet now,
Shallows may ground thee.
Reef in the foresail, there!
Hold the helm fast!
So let the vessel wear-
There swept the blast.

"What of the night, watchman?
What of the night?"
"Cloudy-all quiet-

No land yet all 's right."

Be wakeful, be vigilant, -
Danger may be

At an hour when all seemeth
Securest to thee.

How! gains the leak so fast?
Clean out the hold,
Hoist up thy merchandise,
Heave out thy gold;
There-let the ingots go-
Now the ship rights;
Hurrah! the harbor's near-
Lo! the red lights!
Slacken not sail yet
At inlet or island;
Straight for the beacon steer,
Straight for the high land;
Crowd all thy canvas on,
Cut through the foam:
Christian! cast anchor now, -
Heaven is thy home!

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-thou mayst destroy this form, And lay it low at rest;

But still the spirit that now brooks
Thy tempest, raging high,
Undaunted on its fury looks,
With steadfast eye.

I said to Penury's meagre train,
Come on, -your threats I brave;
My last poor life-drop you may drain,
And crush me to the grave;

Yet still the spirit that endures

Shall mock your force the while, And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours With bitter smile.

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WILLIAM KNOX.

I said to Friendship's menaced blow, Strike deep,-my heart shall bear; Thou canst but add one bitter woe

To those already there;

Yet still the spirit that sustains

This last severe distress

Shall smile upon its keenest pains,
And scorn redress.

I said to Death's uplifted dart,
Aim sure, -(), why delay?
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart,
A weak, reluctant prey;
For still the spirit, firm and free,
Unruffled by this last dismay,
Wrapt in its own eternity,
Shall pass away.

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And the memory of those who have loved her and praised,

Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,

The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,

The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,

Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to

reap,

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For we are the same things our fathers have been;

We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,

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The child that a mother attended and We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, loved, The mother that infant's affection who And run the same course that our fathers

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have run.

thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;

From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink;

To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling;

But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.

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Two by two,

Marching that grand refectory through! A nice little boy held a golden ewer, Embossed, and filled with water, as pure As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,

Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch

In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
Poured lavender-water and eau-de-Co-
logne ;

And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope!
One little boy more
A napkin bore

Of the best white diaper fringed with pink, And a cardinal's hat marked in perma nent ink.

The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight Of these nice little boys dressed all in white;

From his finger he draws
His costly turquoise:

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