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And poet friends, and poesy,

And precious books, for any mood: And then that best of company,

Those graver thoughts in solitude

That hold us fast and never pall:

Then there is You, my own, my fair-And I . . . soon I must leave it all,

-And much you care.

FREDERICK LOCKER.

NATURE REPARATRICI.

RAY cloud, gray veil 'twixt me and youth
And youth's unclouded weather,
Well mayst thou blot the golden days
And skies effaced for ever.

In vain the veil to silver melts,
And flakes of sun and shadow
Once more invite these alien steps

To chase them o'er the meadow.

Yet nature holds a gracious hand,
Her ancient way pursuing;

And spreads the charms we loved of old,
To aid the heart's renewing.

Here her long crests of fringed crag

Allure the sky-ward swallows;

Here the still dove's low love-note floats

Above her leafy hollows.

Here its calm strength her hillside rears

From heaving slopes of clover;

Here still the pewit pipes and flits

Within his furzy cover.

Here hums the wild-bee in the thyme,
Here glows the royal heather;

And youth comes back upon the breeze,
And youth's unclouded weather.

FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE.

FLOWERS WITHOUT FRUIT.

RUNE thou thy words, the thoughts control That o'er thee swell and throng;

They will condense within thy soul,

And change to purpose strong.

But he who lets his feelings run

In soft luxurious flow,

Shrinks when hard service must be done,

And faints at every woe.

Faith's meanest deed more favour bears,
Where hearts and wills are weigh'd,
Than brightest transports, choicest prayers,
Which bloom their hour and fade.

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.

PLEASURE AND PAIN.

@HO can determine the frontier of Pleasure?
Who can distinguish the limits of Pain?
Where is the moment the feeling to
measure?

Where is experience repeated again?

Ye who have felt the delirium of passion-
Say, can ye sever its joys and its pangs?
Is there a power in calm contemplation

To indicate each upon each as it hangs?

I would believe not ;-for spirit will lanquish
While sense is most blest and creation most bright;
And life will be dearer and clearer in anguish
Than ever was felt in the throbs of delight.

See the Fakeer as he swings on his iron,

See the thin Hermit that starves in the wild; Think ye no pleasures the penance environ,

And hope the sole bliss by which pain is beguiled?

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