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SONNET: DECEMBER MORNING.

ANNA SEWARD (LICHFIELD, ENGLAND-1747-1809).

I love to rise ere gleams the tardy light,
Winter's pale dawn; and as warm fires illume,
And cheerful tapers shine around the room,
Through misty windows bend my musing sight,
Where, round the dusky lawn, the mansions white,
With shutters closed, peer faintly through the gloom,
That slow recedes; while yon gray spires assume,
Rising from their dark pile, an added height
By indistinctness given. Then to decree
The grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold
To friendship or the Muse, or seek with glee
Wisdom's rich page. O hours more worth than gold,
By whose blessed use we lengthen life, and, free
From drear decays of age, outlive the old!

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SONG OF DEATH.

ANONYMOUS (BRITISH-19TH CENTURY).

Shrink not, O human Spirit,

The Everlasting Arm is strong to save!
Look up, look up, frail nature, put thy trust
In Him who went down mourning to the dust,
And overcame the grave!

Quickly goes down the sun;
Life's work is almost done;

Fruitless endeavor, hope deferred, and strife!
One little struggle more,

One pang, and then is o'er

All the long, mournful, weariness of life.
Kind friends, 'tis almost past;

Come now and look your last!
Sweet children, gather near,

And his last blessing hear,

See how he loved you who departeth now!
And, with thy trembling step and pallid brow,
Oh, most beloved one,

Whose breast he leaned upon,
Come, faithful unto death,

Receive his parting breath!

The fluttering spirit panteth to be free,
Hold him not back who speeds to victory!
-The bonds are riven, the struggling soul is free!

Hail, hail, enfranchised Spirit!

Thou that the wine-press of the field hast trod!
On, blessed Immortal, on, through boundless space,
And stand with thy Redeemer face to face ;
And stand before thy God!
Life's weary work is o'er,
Thou art of earth no more;

No more art trammelled by the oppressive clay,
But tread'st with wingéd ease
The high acclivities

Of truths sublime, up Heaven's crystalline way.
Here is no bootless quest;

This city's name is Rest;

Here shall no fear appal;

Here love is all in all;

Here shalt thou win thy ardent soul's desire;
Here clothe thee in thy beautiful attire.
Lift, lift thy wond'ring eyes!
Yonder is Paradise,

And this fair shining band

Are spirits of thy land!

And these who throng to meet thee are thy kin, Who have awaited thee, redeemed from sin! -The city's gates unfold-enter, oh! enter in!

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SONNET: COMPARISON.

ANONYMOUS (BRITISH-19th Century).

The lake lay hid in mist, and to the sand

The little billows hastening silently

Came sparkling on, in many a gladsome band,
Soon as they touched the shore all doomed to die.
I gazed upon them with a pensive eye;
For, on that dim and melancholy strand,
I saw the image of man's destiny:
So hurry we right onward thoughtlessly,
Unto the coast of that Eternal Land,
Where, like the worthless billows in their glee,
The first faint touch unable to withstand,
We melt at once into eternity.

O Thou who weighest the waters in thine hand,
My awe-struck spirit puts her trust in Thee!

THE CROCUS'S SOLILOQUY.

Miss Hannah Flagg Gould (1789-1865), by whom the following little poem was written, was a native of Lancaster, Vt., but subsequently resided in Newburyport, Mass. A volume of her poems appeared in 1832; another in 1836; and a third in 1841. Down in my solitude under the snow,

Where nothing cheering can reach me, Here, without light to see how to grow, I'll trust to nature to teach me.

I will not despair, nor be idle, nor frown,
Locked in so gloomy a dwelling;

My leaves shall run up, and my roots shall run down,
While the bud in my bosom is swelling.

Soon as the frost will get out of my bed, From this cold dungeon to free me,

I will peer up with my little bright head; All will be joyful to see me.

Then from my heart will young petals diverge,
As rays of the sun from their focus;

I from the darkness of earth will emerge,
A happy and beautiful crocus.

Gayly arrayed in my yellow and green,

When to their view I have risen, Will they not wonder that one so serene Came from so dismal a prison?

Many, perhaps, from so simple a flower
This little lesson may borrow:
Patient to-day, through its gloomiest hour,
We come out the brighter to-morrow.

THE MANAGING MAMMA.

ANONYMOUS (BRITISH-19TH CENTURY).

She walketh up and down the marriage mart,
And swells with triumph as her wares depart ;
In velvet clad, with well-bejewelled hands,
She has a smile for him who owns broad lands,
And wears her nodding plumes with rare effect
In passing poverty with head erect.

She tries each would-be suitor in the scale-
That social scale whose balance does not fail;
So much for wealth, so much for noble blood,
Deduct for age, or for some clinging mud.
Her daughters, too, well tutored by her art,
All unreluctant in her game take part;
Or, meekly passive, yield themselves to fate,
Knowing full well resistance is too late.
Thus are her victims to the altar led,
With shining robes and flowers upon the head;
There, at the holy shrine, 'mid sacred vows,
She fancies Heaven will bless what earth allows,
And sells her child to Mammon with a smile,
While Mephistopheles approves the style.

A RIDDLE ON THE LETTER H. MISS CATHERINE M. FANSHAWE (ENGLAND-1764-1834). 'Twas whispered in heaven, 'twas muttered in bell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed. "Twill be found in the sphere, when 'tis riven asun

der,

Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder,
'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends at his birth and awaits him in death:
Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health,
Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth;
In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir.
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is

crowned.

Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam,

But woe to the wretch who expels it from home. In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion is drowned. "Twill not soften the heart; and though deaf be the

ear,

It will make it acutely and instantly hear. Yet in shade let it rest like a delicate flower, Ah, breathe on it softly-it dies in an hour.

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