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And cheering to the traveller

The gales that round him play,
When faint and heavily be drags

Along his noontide way.
And when beneath the unclouded sun

Full wearily toils he,
The flowing water makes to him

A soothing melody.
And when the evening light decays,

And all is calm around,
There is sweet music to bis ear

In the distant sheep-bell's sound.
But, oh, of all delightful sounds

Of evening or of morn,
The sireetest is the voice of love
That welcomes his return.

Southey.

THE PARROT. TAF deep affections of the breast,

That Heaven to living things imparts,
Are not exclusively possess'd

By human hearts.
A parrot, from the Spanish main,

Full young, and early caged, came o'er
With bright wings to the bleak domain

Of Mulla's * shore.
To spicy groves where he had won

His plumage of resplendent hue,
His natire fruits, and skies, and sun,

He bade adieu.
For these he changed the smoke of turf,

A heathery land and misty sky;
And turn'd on rocks and raging surf

His golden eye.

* The island of Mull, one of the Hebrides.

But fretted: in our climate cold

He lived and chatter'd many a day;
Until with age, from green and gold

His wings grew gray.
At last, when blind and seeming dumb,

He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more,
A Spanish stranger chanced to come

To Mulla's shore:
He hail'd the bird in Spanish speech;

The bird in Spanish speech replied,
Flapp'd round the cage with joyous screech ;
Dropp'd down and died.

Campbell.

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THE LOST TRAVELLER.
A BARKING sound the shepherd hears,
A cry as of a dog or fox;
He halts, and searches with his eyes
Among the scatter'd rocks :
And now at distance can discern
A stirring in a brake of fern;
And instantly a dog is seen
Glancing through that covert green.
The dog is not of mountain breed ;
It motions too are wild and shy,
With something, as the shepherd thinks,
Unusual in its cry:
Nor is there any one in sight
All round, in hollow or on height;
Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear:
What is the creature doing here ?
It was a cave, a huge recess,
That keeps till June December's snow;
A lofty precipice in front,
A silent' tarn* below:

* A small lake among the mountains.

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, *.
Remote from public road or dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land, -
From trace of human foot or hand.
Not free from boding thoughts, awhile
The shepherd stood ; then makes his way
O'er rocks and stones, following the dog
As quickly as he may ;
Nor far had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the ground:
The appallid discoverer with a sigh
Looks round to learn the history.
From those abrupt and perilous rocks
The man had fallen,--that place of fear!
At length upon the shepherd's mind
It breaks, and all is clear:
He instantly recall’d the name,
And who he was and whence he came ;
Remember'd too the very day
On which the traveller pass'd this way.
But hear a wonder, for whose sake
This lamentable tale I tell :
A lasting monument of words
This wonder merits well.
The dog, which still was hovering nigh,
Repeating the same timid cry,-
This dog had been through three months' space
A dweller in that savage place.
Yes, proof was plain that since the day
When this ill-fated traveller died,
The dog had watch'd about the spot,
Or by his master's side.
How nourish'd here through such long time,
He knows who gare that love sublime ;
And gave that strength of feeling great
Above all human estimate!

Wordsworth.

* One of the highest mountains in Cumberland, 3,055 feet above the level of the sea.

MY BO Y.

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Ho, sailor of the sea !

How's my boy-my boy ?
What's your name, good wife;

And in what ship sail'd he ?
My boy John
He that went to sea-
What care I for the ship, sailor ?
My boy's my boy to me.
You come back from sea,
And know not my John?
I might as well have ask'd some landsman
Yonder down in the town.
There's not an ass in all the parish
But he knows my John.
How's my boy-my boy?
And unless you let me know
I'll swear you are no sailor,
Blue jacket or no,
Brass buttons or no,
Anchor and crown or no.
Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton-
Speak low, woman, speak low."
And why should I speak low, sailor,
About my own boy John ?
If I was loud as I am proud,
I'd sing him over the town.

Why should I speak low, sailor ? That good ship went down.

How's my boy-my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor?
I never was aboard her.
Be she afloat, or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound
Her owners can afford her.
I say, how's my John ?
Every man on board went down,
Every man aboard her.

How's my boy-my boy
What care I for the men, sailor P
I'm not their mother-
How's my boy-my boy?
Tell me of him and no other
How's my boy-my boy?

S. Dobello

MY OWN FIRESIDE.
My own fireside! Those simple words

Can bid the sweetest dreams arise ;
Awaken feeling's tenderest chords,

And fill with tears of joy mine eyes. What is there my wild heart can prize,

That doth not in thy sphere abide; Haunt of my home-bred sympathies,

My own-My own fireside! What care I for the sullen war

Of winds without that ravage earth ? It doth but bid me prize the more

The shelter of thy hallow'd hearth. Thine is the smile that never cloys,

The smile whose truth hath oft been tried, What then are fashion's tinsel toys

To thee-My own fireside !
Oh, may the yearnings, fond and sweet,

That bid my thoughts be all of thee,
Thus ever guide my wandering feet

To thy heart-soothing sanctuary ! Whate'er my future years may be,

Let joy or grief my fate betide, Be still an Eden bright to me, My own-My own fireside!

A. A. Watts.

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