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We've known a many sorrows, sweet !

We've wept a many tears,
And often trod with trembling feet

Our pilgrimage of years.
But when our sky grew dark and wild,

All closelier did we cling :
Clouds broke to beauty as you smiled,
Peace crown'd our fairy-ring,

Dear love!
Our hallow'd fairy-ring.

Away grim Lords of Murderdom;

Away, O Hate and Strife!
Hence, revellers, reeling drunken from

Your feast of human life!
Heaven shield our little Goshen round

From ills that with them spring,
And never be their footprints found
Within our fairy-ring,

Dear love!
Our hallow'd fairy-ring.

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But, come ye who the truth dare own,

Or work in Love's dear name ; Come all who wear the Martyr's crown

The Mystic's robe of flame! Sweet souls a Christless world doth doom,

Like birds smote blind, to sing !
For such, we'll aye make welcome room
Within our fairy-ring,

Dear love!
Our hallow'd fairy-ring.

EUTHALAMIA.

By JOHN LOCKE.

He had those lonely habitudes of thought
That feed on dark-woven images, allied
In spirit to the natural sublime.

The meekest grace, the very breathing soul
Of gentleness, made glad her countenance,
Stamped with the impress of an Angel's love.
Two fountains springing in the wilderness,
Met 'mid the flowers of Childhood's pleasant vale;
The silver wave temper'd the turbid gold
With radiant clearness—confluent they rollid
Through Youthood's rapids, Age's deeper flow,
By rock, or storm, unruffled, unopposed,
Until the ocean of Eternity
Received the tribute of the mingled streams.

THE NIGHTINGALE'S RETURN.

Extracted from Punch.

Most blessed things come silently, and silently depart; Noiseless steals spring-time on the year, and comfort on

the heart; And still, and light, and gentle, like a dew, the rain must be, To quicken seed in furrow and blossom upon tree.

Nile has its foaming rapids, freshes from mountain snows: But where his stream breeds fruitfulness, serene and calm it

flows;

And when he overbrims, to cheer his banks on either side, You scarce can mark, so gradual, the swelling of his tide.

The wings of angels make no stir, as they ply their works of

love ; But by the balm they shed around, we know them that they God spake not in the thunder, nor the mighty rushing blast; His utterance was in the still small voice, that came at last.

move.

So she our sweet Saint Florence, modest, and still, and calm, With no parade of martyr's cross, no pomp of martyr's palm, To the place of plague and famine, foulness, and wounds and

pain, Went out upon her gracious toil, and so returns again.

trill,

No shouting crowds about her path, no multitude's hot

breath To feed with wind of vanity the doubtful fires of faith ; Her paths by hands official all unsmooth’d, her aims decried By the Levites who, when need was, pass’d on the other side. When titles, pensions, orders, with random hand are shower'd, 'Tis well that, save with blessings, she still should walk

undower'd. What title like her own sweet name, with the music all its

own ? What order like the halo by her good deeds round her thrown? Like her own bird—all voiceless while the daylight songsters Sweet singer in the darkness when all songs else are still She on that night of suff'ring that chill’d other hearts to

stone, Came with soft step and gentle speech, yet wise and firm of

tone. Think of the prayers for her, that to the praying heart came

back In rain of blessings, seeming still to spring upon her track; The comfort of her graciousness to those whose road to death Was dark and doubtful, till she show'd the light of love and

faith. Then leave her to the quiet she has chosen ; she demands No greeting from our brazen throats and vulgar clapping

hands. Leave her to the still comfort the saints know that have

striven. What are our earthly honours ? Her honours are in heaven.

THE LONG-AGO.

By R. MONCKTON MILNES.
Eyes, which can but ill define
Shapes that rise about and near,
Through the far horizon's line
Stretch a vision free and clear :

Memories, feeble to retrace
Yesterday's immediate flow,
Find a dear familiar face
In each hour of Long-ago.
Follow your majestic train
Down the slopes of old renown,
Knightly forms without disdain,
Sainted heads without a frown ;
Emperors of thought and hand
Congregate a glorious show,
Met from every age and land
In the plains of Long-ago.
As the heart of childhood brings
Something of eternal joy,
From its own unsounded springs,
Such as life can scarce destroy ;
So, remindful of the prime,
Spirits wandering to and fro,
Rest upon the resting time
In the peace of Long-ago.
Youthful Hope's religious fire,
When it burns no longer, leaves
Ashes of impure Desire
On the altars it deceives !
But the light that fills the Past
Sheds a still diviner glow,
Ever farther it is cast
O'er the scenes of Long-ago.
Many a growth of pain and care,
Cumbering all the present hour,
Yields, when once transplanted there,
Healthy fruit or pleasant flower ;
Thoughts that hardly flourish here,
Feelings long have ceased to blow,
Breathe a native atmosphere
In the world of Long-ago.
On that deep-retiring shore
Frequent pearls of beauty lie,
Where the passion-waves of yore
Fiercely beat, and mounted high :

Sorrows that are sorrows still
Lose the bitter taste of woe;
Nothing's altogether ill
In the griefs of Long-ago.

Tombs where lonely love repines,
Ghastly tenements of tears,
Wear the look of happy shrines
Thro' the golden mist of years :
Death, to those who trust in good,
Vindicates his hardest blow;
Oh! we would not if we could,
Wake the sleep of Long-ago!

Tho' the doom of swift decay
Shocks the soul where life is strong,
Tho' for frailer hearts the day
Lingers sad and overlong, -
Still the weight will find a leaven,
Still the spoiler's hand is slow,
While the Future has its Heaven,
Aud the Past its Long-ago.

THE SUN UPON WEIRDLAW HILL.

By SIR WALTER Scott.

The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,

In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet; The westland wind is hush and still, The lake lies sleeping at my

feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those bright hues that once it bore; Though evening, with her richest dye,

Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

With listless look along the plain

I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride.

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