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I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice in every wind that grieves,

As it whirls from the abandoned oak its withered autumn leaves;

In the gloom of the wild forest, in the stillness of the sea,

I shall think, my Scottish lassie, I shall often think of thee!

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie! In my sad and lonely hours

The thought of thee comes o'er me like the breath of distant flowers:

Like the music that enchants mine ear,

that bless mine eye,

the sights

Like the verdure of the meadow, like the azure of

the sky,

Like the rainbow in the evening, like the blossoms

on the tree,

Is the thought, my Scottish lassie, is the lonely thought of thee!

Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! - here's a parting health to thee!

May thine be still a cloudless lot, though it be far from me!

May still thy laughing eye be bright, and open still thy brow,

Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, thy heart as light as now!

And whatsoe'er my after fate, my dearest toast shall be

Still a health, my Scottish lassie! still a hearty health to thee!

Eliza Cook.

FAIRY MAY.

COME hither, little Fairy May,
My bride if you will be,

I'll give you silks and satins bright,
Most beautiful to see;

I'll bring you to my castle hall,

'Mid lords and ladies gay:

"No, thank you, sir, I'd rather not,"

Quoth little Fairy May!

Says mother, "He's a proper youth;
Say yes, girl, there's a dearie ; "
"Say no, Miss Pride!" her father cried,
"I'd only like to hear ye!"
But still, for all that they could do,

And all that they could say,

"No, thank you, sir, I'd rather not,"
Quoth little Fairy May!

"Come, Fairy May, your words unsay,
You silly little goosie!

You know within your heart of hearts,
You wouldn't like to lose me ;
You'll never see me here again,

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"Well, sir, and much I care for that!"
Quoth little Fairy May.

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"Lose such a prize!" her father cries;
"Say yes-or else I'll make ye!
Her mother scolds-"A wilful chit,
I've half a mind to shake ye!"
But still, for all that they could do,
And all that they could say,

"No, thank you, sir, I'd rather not,"
Quoth little Fairy May.

C. W. Goodhart.

BEAUTY.

COMPARE her eyes

Not to the sun, for they do shine by night: Not to the moon, for they are changing never: Not to the stars, for they have purer light: Not to the fire, for they consume not ever: But to the Maker's self, they likest be,

Whose light doth lighten all things here we see. Spenser.

A NOBLE YOUTH.

As some rich woman, on a winter's morn,
Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudge
Who with numb, blackened fingers makes her

fire

At cock-crow, on a starlit winter's morn,

When the frost flowers the whitened window

pane

And wonders how she lives, and what the

thoughts

Of that poor drudge must be; so Rustum eyed
The unknown, adventurous youth, who, from afar,
Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth
All the most valiant chiefs: long he perused
His spirited air, and wondered who he was.
For very young he seemed, tenderly reared;
Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and
straight,

Which in a queen's secluded garden throws
Its slight, dark shadow on the moonlit turf,
By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's sound-
So slender Sohrab seemed, so softly reared.
And a deep pity entered Rustum's soul
As he beheld him coming.

M. Arnold.

THE WORLD IS BRIGHT BEFORE THEE.

TO * * * *

THE world is bright before thee;
Its summer flowers are thine;
Its calm, blue sky is o'er thee,
Thy bosom pleasure's shrine;
And thine the sunbeam given
To nature's morning hour,
Pure, warm, as when from heaven
It burst on Eden's bower.

There is a song of sorrow,
The death-dirge of the gay,
That tells, ere dawn of morrow,
These charms may melt away;
That sun's bright beam be shaded,
That sky be blue no more,
The summer flowers be faded,

And youth's warm promise o'er.

Believe it not, though lonely

Thy evening home may be;
Though beauty's bark can only
Float on a summer sea;

Though Time thy bloom is stealing,
There's still, beyond his art,

The wild-flower wreath of feeling,
The sunbeam of the heart.

James Percival.

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