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CONTENTS.

xi
Authors.

Page

Life's Progress

Anne, Countess of Winchelsea 102

The Snow-Flake.

Hannah F. Gould........ 104

Beth Gelert; or, the Grave of the Greyhound Hon. W. R. Spencer 106

The Traveller's Return..

.Southey

109

Death of the Warrior King.

.C. Swain

Sabbath Chimes

112

Humility

Montgomery

113

Friends

James Montgomery. 114

The Owl

W. B. Procter

115

Spring

.Bishop Heber

116

A Portrait

Wordsworth

117

The Child and the Mourners

.Mackay

118

The Graves of a Household...

Mrs. Hemans.....

To a Butterfly

.Rogers ........................

The Language of Flowers...........

Percival

Miriam's Song

Moore

123

The Power of God

123

Sonnet

.Shakespeare

124

Song of the Danish Sea-King

Motherwell,

125

God's watchful Care

.Cunningham

126

The Questioner

.Nicoll

127

The Primrose

128

We have been Friends together

Hon. Mrs. Norton

129

On the Death of George III.

Horace Smith

131

Mariner's Hymn .....

Caroline Southey

132

The Complaints of the Poor...

..Southey

133

All Men are Brethren

135

The Inchcape Rock

136

When I was Little

.Baggesen...

138

Staffa

.William Sotheby

139

The Dying Child

Hans Andersen

140

The Fisher

Goethe...

140

The Household Darling

.J. C. Prince

142

Catechism

Keble

144

The Human Seasons

Keats

145

Milton on his Blindness

Milton

146

Brother, thou art gone

H. H. Milman

147

Christian Names

.C. Lamb

Hymn.........

D. M. Moir

149

England goes to Battle.

Gerald Massey.

150

Aspirations of Youth

James Montgomery. 152

There's no dearth of Kindness

Gerald Massey

153

The Clouds

R. W. Crosswell

154

What is that, Mother ?....

G. W. Doane

156

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THERE is an ancient man, who dwells

Without our parish bounds,
Beyond the poplar avenue,

Across two meadow grounds;
And whensoe'er our two small bells

To church call merrily,
Leaning on our churchyard gate

This old man ye may see.

He is a man of many thoughts,

That long have found their rest Each in its proper dwelling-place,

Settled within his breast. A form erect, a stately brow,

A set and measured mien;
The satisfied, unroving look

Of one who much hath seen.
And once, when young, in care of souls,

I watched a rich man's bed,
And willing half, and half ashamed,

Lingered and nothing said,
The ancient man, in accents mild

Removed my shame away. “ Listen, he said: “the minister

Prepares to kneel and pray.”
These lines of humble thankfulness

Will never meet his eye;
Unknown that old man means to live,

And unremembered die.
The forms of life have severed us,

But when that life shall end,
Fain would I hail that reverend man
A father and a friend.

- Dean Alford.

THE BURIED FLOWER. In the silence of my chamber,

When the night is still and deep, And the drowsy heave of ocean

Mutters in its charméd sleep, Oft I hear the angel voices,

That have thrilled me long agoVoices of my lost companions,

Lying deep beneath the snow. Where are now the flowers we tended ?

Withered, broken, branch and stem. Where are now the hopes we cherished ?

Scattered to the winds with them.

THE BURIED FLOWER,

3

For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear

ones, Nursed in hope, and reared in love; Looking fondly ever upward,

To the clear blue heaven above. Smiling on the sun that cheered us,

Rising lightly from the rain; Never folding up your freshness,

Save to give it forth again. Never shaken, save by accents

From a tongue that was not free, As the modest blossom trembles

At the wooing of the bee. Oh! 't is sad to lie and reckon

All the days of faded youth, All the vows that we believed in,

All the words we spoke in truth. Severed—were it severed only-

By an idle thought of strife, Such as time may knit together,

Not the broken chord of life ! O iny heart! that once so truly

Kept another's time and tune, Heart that kindled in the morning,

Look around thee in the noon. Where are they who gave the impulse

To thy earliest thought and flow? Look across the ruined garden,

All are withered, dropped, or low. Oh! I Aing my spirit backwards,

And I pass o'er years of pain : All I loved is rousing round me,

All the lost returns again. Brighter, fairer far than living,

With no trace of woe or pain, Robed in everlasting beauty,

Shall I see them once again?

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