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And music echoes from the walls;
But music with a dirge-like sound;
And pale and silent are the guests,
And every eye is on the ground.
Here, take this cup, though dark it seem,
And drink to human hopes and fears
"Tis from their native element

The cup is fill'd-it is of tears.


What, turn'st thou with averted brow?
Thou scornest this poor feast of mine;
And askest for a purple robe,

Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine
In vain-the veil has left thine eyes,
Or such these would have seem'd to thee;
Before thee is the Feast of Life;
But life in its reality!



THE stately Homes of England!
How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees
O'er all the pleasant land!

The deer across their greensward bound,
Through shade and sunny gleam,

And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry Homes of England!
Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household love

Meet in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song,

Or childhood's tale is told,

Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

The blessed Homes of England!
How softly on their bowers
Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bells' chime
Floats through their woods at morn;
All other sounds in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage Homes of England!
By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep
Each from its nook of leaves,
And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair Homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be rear'd
To guard each hallow'd wall!
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God.



Ir thou art sorrowful and sad,
And thought no comfort yields;
Go leave the busy, bustling world,
And ramble in the fields.
Bless'd Nature will have sympathy
Both with thy sufferings and thee.

Have friends proved false; doth fortune frown;
And poverty depress?

Ne'er, ne'er with unavailing grief
Increase thy wretchedness.

Go to the fields, and Nature will
With pleasant thoughts thy bosom fill.

If thou have placed thy youthful trust
Upon some maiden's love,
And she, regardless of her troth,
Should false and faithless prove;
Ne'er mope nor pine. In pleasures holy,
Drive away thy melancholy.

If thou have seen thy cherish'd hopes,
Like bubbles, burst to air;
Ne'er let thy manly courage sink
To cowardly despair.

Go list the lark's ethereal lay,

"Twill soothe thy gloomy thoughts away.

Kind Nature solace offers all;
Gives joy in storm or calm;
For ev'ry pain a pleasure has ;
For ev'ry wound, a balm.
A mightier physician she
For heart-ills than philosophy.

Go to the fields, and Nature woo,

No matter what thy mood;

The light heart will be lighter made,

The sorrowful imbued

With joyous thoughts. The simplest flower
Has o'er the soul a magic power.

Alone, communing with thyself,
Or with congenial friends;
If joy expands thy soaring soul,
Or woe thy bosom rends;
Go to the fields, and thou wilt find
Thy woe subdued, thy joy refined.



GOD might have made the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small,

The oak-tree and the cedar-tree
Without a flower at all.

He might have made enough, enough
For ev'ry want of ours,
For luxury, medicine, and toil;
And yet have made no flowers.

The ore within the mountain-mine
Requireth none to grow;
Nor doth it need the lotus flower
To make the river flow.

The clouds might give abundant rain ;
The nightly dews might fall;
And the herb that keepeth life in man
Might yet have drunk them all.

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
All dyed in rainbow light;

All fashion'd with supremest grace,
Up-springing day and night?

Springing in valleys green and low,
And in the mountains high,
And in the silent wilderness,
Where no man passes by.

Our outward life requires them not,
Then wherefore had they birth?—
To minister delight to man:
To beautify the earth.

To comfort man-to whisper hope,
Whene'er his faith is dim:
For whoso careth for the flower,
Will care much more for him.



I AM feeble, wan, and weary,
And my wings are nearly furl'd;
I have caused a scene so dreary,
I am glad to quit the world."
With bitterness I'm thinking
On the evil I have done;
And to my caverns sinking,
From the coming of the sun.
The heart of man will sicken

In that pure and holy light,
When he feels the hopes I've stric
With an everlasting blight:
For wildly in my madness,

Have I pour'd abroad in wrath;
And, changing joy to sadness,
Scatter'd ruin in my path.
Earth shudder'd at my motion,

And my power in silence owns:
But the deep and troubled ocean
O'er my deeds of horror moans.
I have sunk the brightest treasure;
I've destroy'd the fairest form;
I have sadly fill'd my measure,
And am now a dying storm.



WITH trembling steps from door to door, The youthful suppliant slowly treads ; His naked feet exposed and sore,

His time-worn garments hung in shreds.

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