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109.-TO THE BLACKBIRD.
IN THE MORNING 
Golden Bill! Golden Bill!
Lo! the peep of day ;
All the air is cool and still,
From the elm tree on the hill
Chant away ;
While the moon drops down the west,
And the stars before the sun
Melt, like snow-flakes, one by one,
Ere the lark has left his nest,
Let thy loud and welcome lay
Few notes, but strong.
IN THE EVENING.
Jet-bright wing! Jet-bright wing!
Flit across the sunset glade
Lying there in wait to sing,
Listen, with thine head awry,
Keeping time with twinkling eye,
While, from all the woodland shade,
Birds of every plume and note
Strain the throat,
Till both hill and valley ring;
And the warbled minstrelsy
Ebbing, flowing, like the sea,
 The Blackbird's is the earliest note heard in the morning. In the evening he takes his part with his minstrel brethren, chiming in at intervals.
Claims brief interludes from thee;
Then, with simple swell and fall,
Breaking beautiful through all,
Let thy pure, clear pipe repeat
Few notes, but sweet.
110.—THE AFFECTION OF A DOG. When wise Ulysses (1) from his native coast Long kept by wars, and long by tempests tost, Arrived at last, poor, old, disguised, alone, To all his friends, and e'en his queen, unknown; Changed as he was, with age, and toils, and cares, Furrowed his reverend face, and white his hairs, In his own palace forced to ask his bread, Scorned by those slaves his former bounty fed ; Forgot of all his own domestic crew, The faithful dog alone his master knew! Unfed, unhoused, neglected, on the clay, Like an old servant, now cashiered,  he lay; And though e'en then expiring on the plain, Touched with resentment of ungrateful man, And longing to behold his ancient lord again, Him when he saw, he rose, and crawl'd to meet; 'Twas all he could—and fawned, and kissed his
feet, Seized with dumb joy-then falling by his side, Owned his returning lord, looked up, and died !
Pope.  Ulysses-king of Ithaca, (an island in the Mediterranean Sea,) and celebrated as a leader in the Trojan war
 Cashiered- discarded, turned off.
: 111.-THE MORNING MIST, Look, William, how the morning mists
Have covered all the scene;
Nor house, nor hill, canst thou behold,
Grey wood, or meadow green.
The distant spire across the vale
These floating vapours shroud ; Scarce are the neighbouring poplars seen,
Pale shadow'd in the cloud. But seest thou, William, where the mists
Sweep o'er the southern sky, The dim effulgence of the sun
That lights them as they fly? Soon shall that glorious orb of day
In all his strength arise, And roll along his azure way,
Through clear and cloudless skies.
Then shall we see across the vale
The village spire so white,
And the grey wood and meadows green
Shall live again in light.
So, William, from the moral world
The clouds shall pass away,
The light that struggles through them now
Shall beam eternal day.
112.—THE MOTHER AND HER CHILD.
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy,
What answering looks of sympathy and joy!
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word,
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs, are heard,
And ever, ever to her lap he flies,
When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise.
Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her fung,
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue,)
As with soft accents round her neck he clings,
And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings,
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart,
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart;
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove,
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love !
But soon a nobler task demands her care,
Apart she joins his little hands in prayer,
Telling of Him who sees in secret there!
And now the volume on her knee has caught
His wandering eye-now many a written thought
Never to die, with many a lisping sweet
His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat.
Released, he chases the bright butterfly,
O he would follow-follow through the sky!
Climbs the gaunt mastiff slumbering in his chain,
And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane;
Then runs, and, kneeling by the fountain side,
Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide,
A dangerous voyage! or if now he can,
If now he wears the habit of a man,
Flings off the coat, so long his pride and pleasure,
And, like a miser digging for his treasure,
His tiny spade in his own garden plies,
And in green letters sees his name arise !
Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight,
She looks, and looks, and still with new delight!
ON FINDING ONE IN BLOOM ON CHRISTMAS-DAY.
There is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.
The prouder beauties of the field,
In gay but quick succession shine,
Race after race their honours yield,
They flourish and decline.
But this small flower, to Nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run,
Wreathes the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale October on its way,
And twines December's arms,