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A LOVER'S ADMIRATION.

BY LANDON.

I see her now. How more than beautiful
She paces yon broad terrace !-The free wind
Has lifted the soft curls from off her cheek,
Which yet it crimsons not,—the pure,

the pale,
Like a young saint. How delicately carved
The Gercian outline of her face !-but touched
With a more spiritual beauty, and more meek.
Her large blue eyes are raised up to the heavens,
Whose hues they wear, and seem to grow more

clear As the heart fills them. There, thuso parted lips,Prayer could but give such voiceless eloquence, Shining like snow her clasped and earnest hands She seems a dedicated whose heart Is God's own altar. By her side I feel As in some holy place. My best love, mine, Blessings must fall on one like thee !

nun,

Chong

ILT

ADORATION.

Wukind was born to wonder, and adore.

Young.

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THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man

learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them,-ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems, in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest, solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences, That, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven, Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed: His spirit with the thought of boundless Power And inaccessible Majesty. Ah, why

Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore
Only among the crowd, and under roofs
That our frail hands have raised! Let me, at least,
Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,
Offer one hymn-thrice happy, if it find
Acceptance in his ear.

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Father, thy hand
Hath reared these venerable columns; Thou
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look

down
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in Thy sun,
Budded, and shook their green leaves in Thy

breeze,
And shot towards heaven. The century-living

crow

Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died
Among their branches, till at last they stood,
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold
Communion with his Maker. Here are seen
No traces of man's pomp or pride ;-no silks
Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes
Encounter; no fantastic carvings show
The boast of our vain race to change the form
Of thy fair works. But thou art herethou fill'st
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds
That run along the summits of these trees

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