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Amid those pleasant hours will none
My slight and slender jasmine-tree,
That bloomest on my border tower, Thou art more dearly loved by me
Than all the wreaths of fairy bower :
Arabia's spice, or Syria's rose,
Thy virgin white more freshly glows.
My mild and winsome jasmine tree,
That climbest up the dark grey wall, Thy tiny flow'rets seem in glee,
Like silver spray-drops, down to fall : Say, did they from their leaves thus peep,
When mail'd moss-troopers rode the hill, When helmet warders paced the keep,
And bugles blew for Belted Will ?
My free and feathery jasmine-tree,
Within the fragrance of thy breath,
And the chain'd captive pined for death.
I dream not, while I gaze on thee; The chieftains of that stern old time
Could ne'er have loved a jasmine-tree.
REWARD OF TOIL.
• In truth, the prison into which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is : and hence to me
THE SABBATH. How many blessed groups this hour are bending, Through England's primrose meadow paths their way, Towards spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms ascending, Whence the sweet bell chimes the hallowed day. The Halls, from old heroic ages grey, Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low, With whose thick orchard blooms the soft winds play, Send out their inmates in a happy flow, Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread With them those pathways,—to the feverish bed Of sickness bound ;-yet, oh my God! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.