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Taken wing!

swing!

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"There my Mary blessed me with her hand

When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing,

Ere she hastened to the spirit-land -
Yonder turf her gentle bosom
pressing;
Broken band!

There's the gate on which I used to There my Mary blessed me with her

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hand.

"I have come to see that grave once

more,

And the sacred place where we de

lighted,

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And showed the names whom love of
God had blessed,
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all

rest!

STANZAS FROM SONG OF THE FLOWERS.

WE are the sweet flowers, Born of sunny showers, (Think, whene'er you see us what our beauty saith;)

Utterance, mute and bright,
Of some unknown delight,
We fill the air with pleasure by our
simple breath:

All who see us love us —
We befit all places,

Unto sorrow we give smiles-and unto graces, graces.

Mark our ways, how noiseless
All, and sweetly voiceless,

Though the March winds pipe to make our passage clear;

Not a whisper tells

Where our small seed dwells Nor is known the moment green when our tips appear.

We thread the earth in silence In silence build our bowers And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, sweet flowers!

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But come rather, thou, good weather, | Our used, and oh, be sure, not to be

And find us in the fields together.

ill-used brothers!

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O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing

And shining so round and low;

You were bright! ah, bright! but your light is failing,-
You are nothing now but a bow.

You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven
That God has hidden your face?

I hope if you have, you will soon be forgiven,
And shine again in your place.

O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow,

You've powdered your legs with gold!
O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow,
Give me your money to hold!

O columbine, open your folded wrapper,
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell?

O cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper
That hangs in your clear green bell!

And show me your nest with the young ones in it;

I will not steal them away;

I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet,

I am seven times one to-day.

SEVEN TIMES TWO. — ROMANCE.

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes,
How many soever they be,

And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges
Come over, come over to me.

Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling

No magical sense conveys,

And bells have forgotten their old art of telling

66

The fortune of future days.

"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, While a boy listened alone;

Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily

All by himself on a stone.

Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over,

And mine, they are yet to be;

No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover You leave the story to me.

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather
Preparing her hoods of snow;

She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather:
Oh! children take long to grow.

I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster,
Nor long summer bide so late;

And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster,
For some things are ill to wait.

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover,
While dear hands are laid on my head;
"The child is a woman, the book may close over,
For all the lessons are said."

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