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Not a care hath Marion Lee,
Dwelling by the sounding sea!
Her young life's a flowery way :-
Without toil from day to day,
Without bodings for the morrow-
Marion was not made for sorrow!
Like the summer-billows wild,
Leaps the happy-hearted child ;
Sees her father's fishing boat
O'er the waters gaily float;
Hears her brother's fishing song
On the light gale borne along;
Half a league she hears the lay,
Ere they turn into the bay,
And with glee, v'er cliff and main,
Sings an answer back again, ..
Which by man and boy is heard,
Like the carol of a bird.
Look, she sitteth laughing there,
Wreathing sea-weed in her hair ;
Saw ye e'er a thing so fair ?

Mary Howitt.

165.—THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY. The noon was shady, and soft airs

Swept Ouse's [1] silent tide, When, 'scaped from literary cares, I wandered by its side.

[1] Ouse—a river in Buckinghamshire.

My dog, now lost in flags and reeds,

Now starting into sight,
Pursued the swallow o'er the meads

With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse display'd

Its lilies newly blown;
Their beauties I intent survey'd,

And one I wish'd my own.
With cane extended far, I sought

To steer it close to land;
But still the prize, though nearly caught,

Escap'd my eager hand.
Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains ·

With fixed, considerate face, .
And puzzling set his puppy brains

To comprehend the case.

But with a cherup clear and strong,

Dispersing all his dream,
I thence withdrew, and follow'd long

The windings of the stream.

My ramble ended, I return’d,

Beau trotting far before,
The floating wreath again discern'd,

And plunging left the shore.

I saw him with that lily, cropped,

Impatient swim to meet My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd

The treasure at my feet.

Charm'd with the sight—"The world," I cried,

“Shall hear of this thy deed : My dog shall mortify the pride

Of man's superior breed.

“But chief myself I will enjoin,

Awake at duty's call,
To show a love as prompt as thine

To Him who gives me all.”



Ever after summer shower,
When the bright sun's returning power
With laughing beam has chased the storm,
And cheer'd reviving Nature's form ;
By sweet-briar hedges bath'd in dew,
Let me my wholesome path pursue ;
There, issuing forth, the frequent snail
Wears the dank (1) way with slimy trail ; (2)
While, as I walk, from pearled bush
The sunny, sparkling drop I brush,
And all the landscape fair I view
Clad in a robe of fresher hue;
And so loud the blackbird sings,
That far and near the valley rings ;
From shelter deep of shaggy rock
The shepherd drives his joyful flock ;

[1] Dank-damp, moist.

[2] Trail_track,

From bowering beech the mower blithe
With new-born vigour grasps the scythe :
While o'er the smooth unbounded meads
Its last faint gleam the rainbow spreads.

T. Warton.


Birds, joyous birds, of the wandering wing! Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring? -" We come from the shores of the green old

Nile, From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, From the palms that wave through the Indian sky, From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby.

". We have swept o'er cities in song renown'd,
Silent they lie with the desert round!
We have cross'd proud rivers, whose tide hath

All dark with the warrior-blood of old;
And each worn wing hath regain'd its home,
Under peasant's roof or monarch's dome.”

And what have ye found in the monarch's dome, Since last ye travers’d the blue sea's foam ? -" We have found a change;—we have found a

pall, And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet hall; And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt ;Nought looks the same, save the nest we built."

Oh! joyous birds, it hath ever been so ;
Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go,
But the huts of hamlets lie still and deep,
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep :-
Say, what have ye found in the peasant's cot
Since last ye parted from that sweet spot ?
“A change we have found there, and many a change,
Faces and footsteps, and all things strange ;
Gone are the heads of the silvery hair,
And the young that were, have a brow of care;
And the place is hush'd where the children play'd,
Nought looks the same save the nest we made."
Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth,
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth;
Yet through the wastes of the trackless air,
Ye have a guide, and shall we despair
Ye over desert and deep have pass’d,
So may we reach our bright home at last.

Mrs. Hemans.


None ever shared the social feast,
Or as an inmate or a guest,
Beneath the celebrated dome,
Where once Sir Isaac (1) had his home,

[1] Sir Isaac Newton.

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