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Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, (I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write unless he 's sent above!)

THE GYPSY CHILD.

He sprung to life in a crazy tent,

Where the cold wind whistled through many a rent;

Rude was the voice, and rough were the hands,

That soothed his wailings and swathed his bands,
No tissue of gold, no lawn was there,

No

snowy robe for the new-born heir ;

But the mother wept, and the father smiled,
With heart-felt joy o'er the gypsy child.

He grows like the young oak, healthy and broad, With no home but the forest, no bed but the sward;

Half naked, he wades in the limpid stream

Or dances about in the scorching beam.

The dazzling glare of the banquet sheen

Hath never fallen on him, I ween:

But fragments are spread, and the wood-fire piled, And sweet is the meal of the gypsy child.

He wanders at large, while the maidens admire
His raven hair and his eyes of fire;

They mark his cheek's rich tawny hue,
With the deep carnation flushing through;
He laughs aloud, and they covet his teeth,
All and white as their own pearl-wreath;
And the courtly dame and damsel mild
Will turn to gaze on the gypsy child.

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Up with the sun, he is roving along,
Whistling to mimic the blackbird's song,
He wanders at nightfall to startle the owl,
And is baying again to the watch-dog's howl,
His limbs are unshackled, his spirit is bold,
He is free from the evils of fashion and gold;
His dower is scant, and his life is wild,
But kings might envy the gypsy child.

TIRED OF PLAY.

TIRED of play! Tired of play!
What hast thou done this livelong day?
The birds are hushed, and so is the bee;

The sun is creeping up steeple and tree;
The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves,

And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves;
Twilight gathers, and day is done, -

How hast thou spent it, restless one!

Playing? But what hast thou done beside
To tell thy mother at eventide?

What promise of morn is left uubroken?
What kind word to thy playmate spoken?
Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven?
How with thy faults has duty striven?
What hast thou learned by field and hill
By greenwood path, and by singing rill?

There will come an eve to a longer day,

That will find thee tired, but not of play!

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And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now,

With drooping limbs and aching brow,

And wish the shadows would faster creep,
And long to go to thy quiet sleep.

Well were it then if thine aching brow
Were as free from sin and shame as now!
Well for thee, if thy lip could tell

A tale like this, of a day spent well.
If thine open hand hath relieved distress, -
If thy pity hath sprung to wretchedness,
If thou hast forgiven the sore offence,
And humbled thy heart with penitence,-
If Nature's voices have spoken to thee
With their holy meanings eloquently,-
If every creature hath won thy love,

From the creeping worm to the brooding dove,-
If never a sad, low-spoken word

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Hath plead with thy human heart unheard, -
Then, when the night steals on, as now,

It will bring relief to thine aching brow,
And with joy and peace at the thought of rest,
Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast.

"WHERE children are, there is the Golden age."

NOVALIS.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

THERE is a reaper whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

Shall I have naught that is fair, saith he,
Have naught but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again.

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,

He kissed their drooping leaves;

It was for the Lord of Paradise

He bound them in his sheaves.

"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"

The Reaper said, and smiled:

"Dear tokens of the earth are they,

Where he was once a child.

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