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The wind flower and the violet, they perished long ago;

And the wild rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,

And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.

And now when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light, the waters of the rill,

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood, and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,

The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side;

In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:

Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours,

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

HUMAN LIFE.

Walter Scott.

TWIST ye, twine ye, even so
Mingle shades of joy and woe;
Hope and fear, and peace and strife,
Weave the thread of human life.

While the mystic twist is spinning,
And the infant's life beginning,
Dimly seen through twilight bending,
Lo! what varied shapes attending.

Passions wild, and follies vain;
Pleasures, soon exchanged for pain;
Hope and fear, and peace and strife,
Form the thread of human life.

THE FROSTED TREES.

Anon.

WHAT strange enchantment meets my view,
So wondrous bright and fair?
Has heaven poured out its silver dew
On the rejoicing air?

Or am I borne to regions new,

To see the glories there?

Last eve, when sunset fill'd the sky
With wreaths of golden light,
The trees sent up their arms on high,
All leafless to the sight,

And sleepy mists came down to lie
On the dark breast of night.

But now the scene is changed, and all
Is fancifully new;

The trees last eve so straight and tall,
Are bending on the view;

And streams of living daylight fall
The silvery arches through.

The boughs are strung with glittering pearls,
As dewdrops bright and bland;
And there they gleam in silvery curls,
Like gems of Samarcand;

Seeming in wild fantastic whirls

The work of fairy land.

Each branch stoops meekly with the weight,
And in the light breeze swerves,
As if some viewless angel sate

Upon its graceful curves,

And made the fibres spring elate,
Thrilling the secret nerves.

Oh! I could dream the robe of heaven,
Pure as the dazzling snow,
Beaming as when to spirits given,
Had come in its stealthy flow,

From the sky at silent even

For the morning's glorious show.

HUMAN PERFECTION.

Ben Jonson.

Ir is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be,

Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere.
A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flow'r of light;
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.

CHRISTMAS CHIMES.

Anon.

THE chimes, the chimes of Motherland,

Of England, green and old,

That out from fane and ivied tower
A thousand years have tolled :
How glorious must their music be,
As breaks the hallow'd day,
And calleth, with a seraph's voice,
A nation up to pray!

Those chimes that tell a thousand tales,

Sweet tales of olden time!

And ring a thousand memories

At vesper and at prime

At bridal and at burial,

For cottager and king

Those chimes, those glorious Christmas chimes,

How blessedly they ring!

Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland,
Upon a Christmas morn,
Outbreaking as the angels did,

For a Redeemer born!

How merrily they call afar,

To cot and baron's hall,

With holly deck'd and mistletoe,
To keep the festival.

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