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I heard, and in my soul discerned two voices in the air
The moon was high; the dead men stood together
And on the bay the moonlight lay

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I heard them talk, Why, this is strange, I trow!
The boat came closer to the ship.

The Pilot's boy, who now doth crazy go
To walk together to the kirk, and all together pray.
He prayeth well, who loveth well both man and bird

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E. H. WEHNERT

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E. DUNCAN.

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E. H. WEHNERT

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At summer eve, when Heaven's aerial bow
The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower.
The wolf's long howl from Oonalaska's shore
Pierced the deep woods

When Venus throned in clouds of rosy hue
Bright as the pillar rose at Heaven's command
Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps
Or lisps with holy look his evning prayer
Leans o'er its humble gate, and thinks the while.
There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray.
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd.
Tell's Chapel-Lake of Lucerne.

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And braved the stormy spirit of the Cape.
Tail-piece-Ship in sight of harbour

Who hath not paused, while Beauty's pensive eye

In vain the wild bird caroll'd on the steep
And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale
Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour
And arms and warriors fell with hollow clang
From Kilda to the green Ierne's shore.

As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm

Swift as the tempest travels on the deep

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HARRISON WEIR

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HARRISON WEIR

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GEORGE THOMAS

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GEORGE THOMAS

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And bade his country and his child farewell.

Tail-piece-Sunrise

Those evening bells! those evening bells!

Up to the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.
The pair had but one inmate in their house

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Beneath that large old oak, which near their door
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock
And with this basket on his arm, the lad.
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers.
Mine be a cot beside the hill

You must wake and call me early, call me early,
mother dear

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As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see
The honeysuckle round the porch has won its wavy

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The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass

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To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind.
And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer

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Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon

your face

But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set

To die before the snowdrop came, but now the violet's

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When the night and morning meet. Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast

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A HYMN TO THE SEASONS.

BY JAMES THOMSON.

[JAMES THOMSON was born at Ednam, near Kelso, on the 11th of September, 1700. His father was the minister of the parish. When eighteen years of age, the youth was sent to Edinburgh to be educated for the Church; but, on the death of his father, he resolved to try his fortune in London. In March, 1727, he published his "Winter," which, in successive years, was followed by "Summer," " Spring," and "Autumn." In 1731, he became travelling companion, or tutor, to the son of Sir Charles Talbot; he was thus occupied for three years, in the course of which he visited all the most remarkable places on the Continent. On his return to England he obtained, the sinecure situation of Secretary of Briefs in the Court of Chancery, which, however, he lost on the death of his patron, Lord-Chancellor Talbot. His circumstances were afterwards improved by a pension of 100%. which he received from the Prince of Wales through Lord Lyttelton; he was also appointed Surveyor-General of the Leeward Islands, the duties of which he could perform by proxy, and which realized to him 300l. a year. Being now comparatively rich, he retired to a cottage in the neighbourhood of Richmond. He there wrote several tragedies, and his "Castle of Indolence." He died, after a short illness, on the 27th of August, 1748.]

THESE as they change, Almighty Father, these
Are but the varied God. The rolling year

Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring
Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and love.

Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm;

Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles;

And every sense, and every heart is joy.

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Then comes Thy glory in the Summer-months, With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year: And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks;

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And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,

By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales.
Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfin'd,
And spreads a common feast for all that lives.

In Winter awful Thou! With clouds and storms
Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd,
Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing,
Riding sublime, Thou bid'st the world adore,
And humblest Nature with Thy northern blast.

Mysterious round! What skill, what force divine, Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train, Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art, Such beauty and beneficence combin'd; Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade; And all so forming an harmonious whole; That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty Hand, That, ever-busy, wheels the silent spheres, Works in the secret deep, shoots, steaming, thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring, Flings from the Sun direct the flaming Day, Feeds every creature, hurls the tempest forth, And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, With transport touches all the springs of life.

Nature, attend join every living soul, Beneath the spacious temple of the sky,

In adoration join, and, ardent, raise

One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales,
Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes.

O, talk of Him in solitary glooms,

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