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Her soul is far away,

In her childhood's land, perchance, Where her young sisters play,

Where shines her mother's glance.

Some old sweet native sound

Her spirit haply weaves:

A harmony profound

Of woods with all their leaves ;

A murmur of the sea,

A laughing tone of streams;Long may her sojourn be

In the music land of dreams!

Each voice of love is there,

Each gleam of beauty fled, Each lost one still more fairOh! lightly, lightly tread!

MRS. HEMANS.

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THE ANGLER.

"I in these flowery meads would be;
These crystal streams should solace me :
To whose harmonious bubbling noise

I with my angle would rejoice;

And angle on, and beg to have

A quiet passage to a welcome grave."

IZAAK WALTON.

THOU, that hast loved so long and well

The vale's deep quiet streams,
Where the pure water-lilies dwell,

Shedding forth tender gleams;

And o'er the pool the May-fly's wing
Glances in golden eves of Spring.

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Oh! lone and lovely haunts are thine:
Soft, soft the river flows,

Wearing the shadow of thy line,
The gloom of alder-boughs;
And in the midst, a richer hue,-

One gliding vein of Heaven's own blue.

And there but low sweet sounds are heard—

The whisper of the reed,

The plashing trout, the rustling bird,

The scythe upon the mead:

Yet, through the murmuring osiers near,
There steals a step which mortals fear.

'Tis not the stag, that comes to lave
At noon his panting breast;
'Tis not the bittern, by the wave

Seeking her sedgy nest;

The air is fill'd with Summer's breath,

The young flowers laugh-yet look! 'tis Death!

But if, where silvery currents rove,

Thy heart, grown still and sage,
Hath learn'd to read the words of love
That shine o'er Nature's page;
If holy thoughts thy guests have been,
Under the shade of willows green;

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Then, lover of the silent hour,

By deep lone waters past,

Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power,
To cheer thee through the last;

And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell,
May'st calmly bid thy streams farewell.

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THE STREET MUSICIAN.

AN Orpheus! an Orpheus!—he works on the crowd;
He sways them with harmony merry and loud;
He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim-
Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him?

What an eager assembly! what an empire is this! The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss; The mourner is cheer'd, and the anxious have rest; And the guilt-burden'd soul is no longer opprest.

That errand-bound 'prentice was passing in haste-What matter! he's caught-and his time runs to waste; The newsman is stopp'd, though he stops on the fret; And the half-breathless lamplighter-he's in the net!

The porter sits down on the weight which he bore; The lass with her barrow wheels hither her store ;If a thief could be here, he might pilfer at ease: She sees the musician-'tis all that she sees!

That tall man, a giant in bulk and in height,
Not an inch of his body is free from delight;
Can he keep himself still, if he would? oh, not he!
The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.

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