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“What is that, mother ?” “The eagle, boy,
Proudly careering his course of joy;
Firm on his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying ;
His wing on the wind and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward and upward, and true to the line."

“What is that, mother ?” "The swan, my love :

He is floating down from his native grove;
No loved one, now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down by himself to die.
Death darkens his eye and unplumes his wings,
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.”

-G, W. Doane.


OH, swift we go o'er the fleecy snow,

When moonbeams sparkle round,
When hoofs keep time to music's chime,

As merrily on we bound.
On a winter's night, when hearts are light,

And health is on the wind,
We loose the rein and sweep the plain,

And leave our cares behind.

With a laugh and song, we glide along

Across the fleeting snow ;
With friends beside, how swift we ride

On the beautiful track below!

Oh, the raging sea has joy for me,

When gale and tempests roar ;
But give me the speed of a foaming steed,
And I'll ask for the waves no more.

7. T. Fields.

How calmly sinks the parting sun,

Yet twilight lingers still,
And beautiful as dream of heaven,

It slumbers on the hill.
Earth sleeps with all her glorious things
Beneath the Holy Spirit's wings,
And, rendering back the hues above,
Seems resting in a trance of love.
Round yonder rocks the forest trees

In shadowy groups recline,
Like saints at evening bowed in prayer

Around their holy shrine.
And through their leaves the night-winds blow,
So calm and still, their music low
Seems the mysterious voice of prayer,
Soft echoed on the evening air.
And yonder western throng of clouds

Retiring from the sky,
So calmly move, so softly glow,

They seem to Fancy's eye
Bright creatures of a better sphere
Come down at noon to worship here:
And from their sacrifice of love
Returning to their home above.
The blue isles of the golden sea,

The night arch floating by,
The flowers that gaze upon the heavens,

The bright streams leaping by,
Are living with religion-deep
On earth and sea its glories sleep,
And mingle with the starlight rays,
Like the soft light of parted days.
The spirit of the holy eve

Comes through the silent air
To Feeling's hidden spring, and wakes

A gush of music there!


And the far depths of ether beam,
So passing fair, we almost dream
That we can rise, and wander through
Their open paths of trackless blue.
Each soul is filled with glorious dreams,

Each pulse is beating wild ;
And Thought is soaring to the shrine

Of glory undefiled :
And holy aspirations start,
Like blessed angels, from the heart,
And bind--for earth's dark ties are riven-
Our spirits to the gates of heaven.

-G. D. Prentice.


THE chimes, the chimes of Motherland,

Of England, green and old,
That out from fane and ivied tower

A thousand years have tolled ;
How glorious must their music be,

As breaks the hallowed day,
And calleth, with a seraph's voice,

A nation up to pray!
Those chimes, that tell a thousand tales,

Sweet tales of olden time,
And ring a thousand memories

At vesper and at prime,
At bridal and at burial,

For cottager and king,
Those chimes—those glorious Christian chimes,

How blessedly they ring!
Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland,

Upon a Christmas morn
Outbreaking, as the angels did

For a Redeemer born;
How merrily they call afar,

To cot and baron's hall,
With holly decked, and mistletoe,

To keep the festival !

The chimes of England, how they peal

From tower and gothic pile,
Where hymn and swelling anthem fill

The dim cathedral aisle !
Where windows bathe the holy light

On priestly heads that falls,
And stain the florid tracery

And banner-dighted walls !
And then, those Easter bells in spring,

Those glorious Easter chimes !
How loyally they hail thee round,

Old queen of holy times !
From hill to hill, like sentinels,

Responsively they cry,
And sing the rising of the Lord

From vale to mountain high.
I love ye, chimes of Motherland,

With all this soul of mine,
And bless the Lord that I am sprung

Of good old English line !
And like a son I sing the lay

That England's glory tells ; For she is lovely to the Lord,

For you, ye Christmas bells !
And, heir of her ancestral fame,

And happy in my birth,
Thee, too, I love, my forest land,

The joy of all the earth.
For thine thy mother's voice shall be ;

And here, where God is King,
With English chimes, from Christian spires,
The wilderness shall ring.

A.C. Coxe.

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I long to see those icebergs vast,

With heads all crowned with snow, Whose green roots sleep in the awful deep Two hundred fathoms low !

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