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IN SEPTEMBER.

THIS windy, bright September afternoon
My heart is wide awake, yet full of dreams.
The air, alive with hushed confusion, teems
With scent of grain-fields, and a mystic rune,
Foreboding of the fall of Summer soon,

Keeps swelling and subsiding; till there seems O'er all the world of valleys, hills, and streams, Only the wind's inexplicable tune.

My heart is full of dreams, yet wide awake.
I lie and watch the topmost tossing boughs

Of tall elms, pale against the vaulted blue; But even now some yellowing branches shake, Some hue of death the living green endows:If beauty flies, fain would I vanish too.

A BREATHING TIME.

HERE is a breathing time, and rest for a little season. Here have I drained deep draughts out of the springs of life.

Here, as of old, while still unacquainted with toil

and faintness,

Stretched are my veins with strength, fearless my

heart and at peace.

I have come back from the crowd, the blinding strife and the tumult,

Pain, and the shadow of pain, sorrow in silence endured;

Fighting, at last I have fallen, and sought the breast of the Mother,

Quite cast down I have crept close to the broad sweet earth.

Lo, out of failure triumph! Renewed the wavering courage,

Tense the unstrung nerves, steadfast the faltering knees!

Weary no more, nor faint, nor grieved at heart, nor despairing,

Hushed in the earth's green lap, lulled to slumber and dreams!

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O Child of Nations, giant-limbed,
Who stand'st among the nations now
Unheeded, unadored, unhymned,
With unanointed brow,—
How long the ignoble sloth, how long

The trust in greatness not thine own?
Surely the lion's brood is strong

To front the world alone!
How long the indolence, ere thou dare

Achieve thy destiny, seize thy fame —
Ere our proud eyes behold thee bear
A nation's franchise, nation's name?
The Saxon force, the Celtic fire,

These are thy manhood's heritage!
Why rest with babes and slaves? Seek higher
The place of race and age.

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Oh, might some patriot rise the gloom dispel,
Chase Error's mist, and break her magic spell!
But vain the wish for, hark, the murmuring meed
Of hoarse applause from yonder shed proceed!
Enter and view the thronging concourse there,
Intent with gaping mouth and stupid stare;
While in their midst their supple leader stands,
Harangues aloud and flourishes his hands,
To adulation tones his servile throat,
And sues successful for each blockhead's vote.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT,

RIPE GRAIN.

(Published at the age of twelve.)

O STILL, white face of perfect peace,
Untouched by passion, freed from pain!
He, who ordained that work should cease,
Took to Himself the ripened grain.

O noble face! your beauty bears
The glory that is wrung from pain,-
The high, celestial beauty wears

of finished work, of ripened grain.

Of human care you left no trace,

No lightest trace of grief or pain,On earth an empty form and faceIn Heaven stands the ripened grain. DORA READ GOODALE,

FROM

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

FRAGMENT.

(Written at the age of fourteen.) HARK! the owlet flaps his wings In the pathless dell beneath! Hark! 'tis the night-raven sings Tidings of approaching death! PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

FROM THE EMBARGO.

(Written at the age of thirteen.) E'EN while I sing, see Faction urge her claim, Misled with falsehood and with zeal inflame; Lift her black banner, spread her empire wide, And stalk triumphant with a Fury's stride! She blows her brazen trump, and at the sound A motley throng, obedient, flock around; A mist of changing hue around she flings, And Darkness perches on her dragon wings!

THE ECHO.

"CONSTANTIA AND PHILETUS.”

(Written at the age of twelve.)

"OH! what hath caused my killing miseries?" "EYES," Echo said. What hath detained my

ease?"

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SOMEBODY'S MOTHER.

THE woman was old and ragged and gray,
And bent with the chill of a winter's day;
The streets were white with a recent snow,
And the woman's feet with age were slow.

At the crowded crossing she waited long,
Jostled aside by the careless throng
Of human beings who passed her by,
Unheeding the glance of her anxious eye.
Down the street with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of " school let out,"
Come happy boys, like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep;
Past the woman, so old and gray,
Hastened the children on their way.

None offered a helping hand to her,
So weak and timid, afraid to stir,

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet
Should trample her down in the slippery street.

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He stands at ilka door, an' he keeks wi' wistful' e'e, To see the crowd aroun' the fire a' laughin' loud wi' glee,

But he daurna venture ben, though his heart be e'er sae fain,

For he maunna play wi' ither bairns, the drunkard's raggit wean.

Oh, see the wee bit bairnie, his heart is unco' fou, The sleet is blawin' cauld, and he's droukit through and through,

He's peerin' for his mither, an' he wun'ers whaur she's gane,

But oh! his mither she forgets her puir wee raggit

wean.

He ken's nae faither's love, an' he kens nae mither's care,

To sooth his wee bit sorrows, or kame his tautit

hair,

To kiss him when he waukens, or smooth his bed at e'en,

An' oh! he fears his faither's face, the drunkard's raggit wean.

Oh pity the wee laddie, sae guileless an' sae young, The oath that lea's the faither's lip 'll settle on his tongue;

An' sinfu' words his mither speaks his infant lips 'll stain,

For oh! there's nane to guide the bairn, the drunkard's raggit wean.

Then surely we micht try an' turn that sinfu' mither's heart,

An' try to get his faither to act a faither's part,
An' mak' them lea' the drunkard's cup, an' never

taste again,

An' cherish wi' a parent's care, their puir wee raggit wean.

JAMES P. CRAWFORD,

WHAT I LIVE FOR.

I LIVE for those who love me,
Whose hearts are kind and true;
For the Heaven that smiles above me,
And awaits my spirit too;

For all human ties that bind me,
For the task by God assigned me,
For the bright hopes yet to find me,
And the good that I can do.

I live to learn their story
Who suffered for my sake;

To emulate their glory,

And follow in their wake:

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