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Amid those pleasant hours will none
Think kindly on what I have done?
Then, fairy page, I leave with thee,
Some memory of my songs and me.

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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 :
I ask not, while I near thee dwell,

Arabia's spice, or Syria's rose,
Thy light festoons more freshly smell,

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,
Yon dungeon grated to its key,

And the chain'd captive pined for death.
On border fray, on feudal crime,

I dream not, while I gaze on thee; The chieftains of that stern old time

Could ne'er have loved a jasmine-tree.

LORD MORPETH.

REWARD OF TOIL.
What men most covet, wealth, distinction, power,
Are baubles nothing worth, that only serve
To rouse us up, as children in the schools
Are roused up to exertion. The reward
Is in the race we run, not in the prize;
And they the few, that have it ere they earn it,
Having by favour or inheritance
These dangerous gifts placed in their idle hands,
And all that should await on worth well tried.
All in the glorious days of old reserved
For manhood most mature, or reverend age,
Know not, nor ever can, the generous pride
That glows in him who on himself relies
Entering the lists of life.

ROGERS.

SONNETS.

SONNETS.

• In truth, the prison into which we doom

Ourselves, no prison is : and hence to me
In sundry moods 'twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground.”

WORDSWORTH.

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.

MRS. HEMANS.

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