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I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three;
I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be,
How silvery sweet those tones of his, when he prattles on my knee:
I do not think his bright blue eye is like his brother's, keen;
Nor his brow so full of childish thought, as his hath ever been;
But his little heart 's a fountain pure, of kind and tender feeling,
And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing:
When he walks with me, the country folk who pass us in the street
Will speak their joy, and bless my boy, who looks so mild and sweet.
A playfellow is he to all, and yet with cheerful tone
He'll sing his little song of love when left to sport alone.
His presence is like sunshine, sent to gladden home and earth,
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth.


Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

For those that here we see no more ;

Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right;
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out the old shapes of foul disease;

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.-TENNYSON.


Hurrah! hurrah! the waters o’er

The mountain's steep decline:
Time-space-have yielded to my power-

The world! the world is mine!
The rivers the sun hath earliest blest,

Or those where his beams decline,
The giant streams of the queenly west,

Or the orient floods divine.

The ocean pales where'er I sweep,

To hear my strength rejoice,
And the monsters of the briny deep

Cower trembling at my voice.
I carry the wealth and the lord of earth,

The thoughts of the god-like mind,
The wind lags after my flying forth,

The lightning is left behind.

In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine

My tireless arm doth play,
Where the rocks never saw the sun decline,

Or the dawn of the glorious day.
I bring earth's glittering jewels up

From the hidden cave below,
And I make the fountain's granite cup

With a crystal gush overflow.

I blow the bellows, I forge the steel

In all the shops of trade;
I hammer the ore and turn the wheel

Where my arms of strength are made;
I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint,

I carry, I spin, I weave:
And all my doings I put into print

On every Saturday eve.

I've no muscle to weary, no breast to decay,

No bones to be laid on the shelf;
And soon I intend you may go and play,”

While I manage the world by myself.
But harness me down with your iron bands,

Be sure of your curb and rein, For I scurn the strength of your puny hands,

As the tempest scorns a chain.






"In contemplation of created things,
By easy steps we may ascend to God.”

That sensibility to beauty, which, when cultivated and improved we term taste, is universally diffused through the human species; and it is most uniform with respect to those objects, which, being out of our power, are not liable to variation from accident, caprice, or fashion. Thé verdant lawn, the shady grove, the variegated landscape, the boundless ocean, and the starry firmament, are contemplated with pleasure by every attentive beholder. But the emotions of different spectators, though similar in kind, differ widely in degree: and to relish with full delight the enchanting scenes of nature, the mind must be uncorrupted by avarice, sensuality, or ambition ; quick in her sensibilities; elevated in her sentiments; and devout in her affections. He who possesses such exalted powers of perception and enjoyment, may almost say wit! the poet :

"I care not, Fortune, what you me deny;

You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,

Through which Aurora shows her brightening face;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace

The woods and lawns by living streams, at eve;
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,

And I their toys to the great children leave

Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave!" Perhaps such ardent enthusiasm may not be compatible with the necessary toils and active

offices which Providence has assigned to the generality of men. But there are none to whom some portion of it may not prove advantageous; and if it were cherished by each


individual in that degree which is consistent with the indispensable duties of his station, the felicity of human life would be considerably augmented. From this source the refined and vivid pleasures of the imagination are almost entirely derived; and the elegant arts owe their choicest beauties to a taste for the contemplation of nature. Painting and sculpture are express imitations of visible objects; and where would be the charms of poetry, if divested of the imagery and embellishments which she borrows from rural scenes? Painters, statuaries and poets, therefore, are always ambitious to acknowledge themselves the pupils of nature; and, as their skill increases, they grow more and more delighted with every view of the animal and vegetable world. But the pleasure resulting from admiration is transient; and to cultivate taste without regard to its influence on the passions and affections, “is to rear a tree for its blossoms, which is capable of yielding the richest and most valuable fruits." Physical and moral beauty bear so intimate a relation to each other, that they may be considered as different gradations in the scale of excellence; and the knowledge and relish of the former should be deemed only a step to the nobler and more permanent enjoyment of the latter.

Whoever has visited the Leasowes in Warwickshire, must feel the force and propriety of an inscription which meets the eye at the entrance into these delightful grounds :

“Would you, then, taste the tranquil scene,
Be sure your bosom be serene;
Devoid of hate, devoid of strife,
Devoid of all that poisons life:
And oh, how fitting in this place

To cherish love for all man's race." Now, such scenes contribute powerfully to inspire that serenity which is necessary to enjoy and heighten their beauties. By a sweet contagion, the soul catches the harmony which she contemplates; and the frame within assimilates itself to that which is without. For

“ Who can forbear to smile with nature?
Can strong passions in the bosom roll,
While every gale is peace, and each grove

Is melody ?" In this state of composure we become susceptible of virtuous im. pressions from almost every surrounding object; an equal and extensive benevolence is called forth into exertion: and—having felt a common interest in the gratifications of inferior beings-we shall be no longer indifferent to their sufferings, or become wantonly instrumental in producing them.

But the taste for natural beauty is subservient to higher purposes than those which have been enumerated; and the cultivation of it not only refines and humanizes, but dignifies and exalts the affections. It elevates them to the admiration and love of that Being who is the Author of all that is fair, sublime and good in the creation. Scepticism and irreligion are hardly compatible with the sensibility of heart which arises from a just and lively relish of the wisdom, harmony, and order subsisting in the world around us ; and emotions of piety must spring up spontaneously in the bosom that is in unison with all animated nature. Actuated by this divine inspiration, man finds a fane in every grove; and, glowing with devout fervour, he joins his song to the universal chorus, or muses the praise of the Almighty in more expressive silence. Thus they

“Whom nature's works can charm, with God himself
Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day,
With his conceptions; act upon his plan,
And form to his the relish of their souls."



There lives and works
A soul in all things, and that soul is God.
The beauties of the wilderness are His,
That make so gay the solitary place,
Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms,
That cultivation glories in, are His.
He sets the bright procession on its way,
And marshals all the order of the year;
He marks the bounds which winter may not pass,
And blunts its pointed fury; in its case,
Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ
Uninjured, with inimitable art;
And, ere one flowery season fades and dies,
Designs the blooming wonders of the next.
The Lord of all, Himself through all diffused,
Sustains, and is the life of all that lives.
Nature is but a name for an effect,
Whose cause is God. Not a flower
But shows some touch, in freckle, streak or stain,
Of his unrivalled pencil. He inspires
Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues,
And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes,
In grains as countless as the sea-side sands,
The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth.
Happy who walks with him! whom what he finds
Of favour or of scent, in fruit or flower,
Or what he views of beautiful or grand
In Nature, from the broad majestic oak
To the green blade that twinkles in the sun,
Prompts with remembrance of a present God.
In the vast and the minute, he sees
The unambiguous footsteps of the God
Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing,
And wheels His throne upon the rolling worlds.


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