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PHILIP EN A.
Go where the water glideth gently ever ; Glideth through meadows that the greenest beWander beside our own beloved river,
And think of me.
Wander in forests where the small flower layeth
And think of me.
And when the sky is silver pale at even,
Forget thee? If to dream by night, and muse on
thee by dayIf all the worship, deep and wild, a poet's heart can
pay If prayers in absence, breathed for thee to Heaven's
protecting power If winged thoughts that fit to thee, a thousand in an
hourIf busy fancy, blending thee with all my future
lot, If this is called forgetting, thou, indeed, shalt be
Forget thee? Bid the forest birds forget their
sweetest tune! Forget thee? Bid the sea forget to swell beneath
the moon ; Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's re
freshing dew; Thyself forget thine "own dear land," and its
“ mountains wild and blue;" Forgot each old familiar face, each long-remem
bered spot; When these things are forgot hy thee, then thou shalt be forgot.
Rev. J. MOULTRIE.
The heart is not forgetful; the bright eye
To-day may gaze, and may forget 10-morrow;
But on the heart's pure tablet, joy and sorrow Are traced in lines that fade not; we may die, But we cannot forget rapture and agony.
The world may pass before our careless sight,
And day may press on day, and our years vanish
Numberless, noiseless, but we cannot banish The phantoms of the past-gloomy or bright, Our life's young morning sees them, and they haunt
our night. Then happy he whose memory is fraught
With virtuous images; his heart ungrieving
Shall muse upon them with a fond believing Of its own bliss. These things have I been taught By suffering, and by sorrow I this wisdom bought.
Talk who will of the world as a desert of thrall,
Yet, yet, there is bloom on the waste : Though the chalice of life hath its acid and gall,
There are honey-drops 100 for the taste.
There are times when the storm-gust may ratllo
around, There are spots where the poison shrub grows; Yet are there not hours when naught else can be
found But the south wind, the sunshine, and rose ?
O haplessly rare is the portion that's ours,
And strange is the path that we take, If there spring not beside us a few precious flowers,
To soften the thorn and the brake.
Earth is not all fair, yet it is not all gloom;
And the voice of the grateful will tell,
Gave hope, health, and the bridal as well.
Then say not the world is a desert of thrall;
There is bloom, there is light on the waste; Though the chalice of life hath its acid and gall, There are honey-drops too for the taste.
TO MY WIFE.
PRESENTED, TOGETHER WITH A KNIFE, ON HER WEDDING-DAY, WHICH HAPPENED TO BE HER
BIRTH-DAY AND NEW YEAR'S DAY.
(Written in the last century.)
A KNIFE, my dear, cuts love, they say-