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Come to the sunset tree !

The day is past and gone ;
The woodman's axe lies free,

And the reaper's work is done.
The twilight star to heaven,

And the summer dew to flowers,
And rest to us is given,

By the cool soft evening hours.
Sweet is the hour of rest !

Pleasant the wind's low sigh,
And the gleaming of the west,

And the turf whereon we lie;
When the burden and the heat

Of labour's task are o'er,
And kindly voices greet

The tired one at his door.
Come to the sunset tree!

The day is past and gone ;
The woodman's axe lies free,

And the reaper's work is done.
Yes ; tuneful is the sound

That dwells in whispering boughs ;
Welcome the freshness round!

And the gale that fans our brows.
But rest more sweet and still

Than ever nightfall gave,
Our yearning hearts shall fill

In the world beyond the grave.
There shall no tempest blow,

No scorching noontide heat ;
There shall be no more snow,

No weary wandering feet.
So we lift our trusting eyes

From the hills our fathers trod,
To the quiet of the skies,

To the haven of our God.

Come to the sunset tree!

The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done.

Mrs. Hemans.


NEW PLACE. Old things are come to honour. Well they might, If old like thee, thou reverend monitor! So gravely bright, so simply decorated, Thy gold but faded into softer beauty, While click and hammer-stroke are just the same As when my cradle heard them. Thou hold’st on, Unwearied, unremitting, constant ever; The time that thou dost measure leaves no mark Of age or sorrow on thy gleaming face; The pulses of thy heart were never stronger, And thy voice rings as clear as when it told me How slowly crept the impatient days of childhood. More than a hundred years of joys and troubles Have pass'd and listen'd to thee, while thy tongue Still told in its one round the unvaried tale ;The same to thee-to them how different, As fears, regrets, or wishes gave it tone! My mother's childish wonder gazed as mine did On the raised figures of thy slender door ; The men-or dames--Chinese, grotesquely human ; The antler'd stag beneath its small, round window; The birds above, of scarce less size than he ; The doubtful house ; the tree unknown to nature. I see thee not in the old-fashion'd room, That first received thee from the mother-land; But yet thou mind’st me of those ancient times Of homely duties and of plain delights, Whose love and mirth, and sadness sat before thee,Their laugh and sigh both over now, their voices Sunk and forgotten, and their forms but dust.

Thou, for their sake, stand honour'd there awhile,
Honour'd wherever standing,-ne'er to leave
The house that calls me master. When there's none

I thus bequeath thee, as in trust, to those
Who shall bear up my name.

For each that hears The music of thy bell strike on the hours, Duties between, and Heaven's great hope beyond them.


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POOR SUSAN. Ar the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, There's a thrush that sings loud,—it has sung for three

years ; Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail ; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in heaven :-but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade ; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes.



The night comes on apace ; Chill blows the blast, and drives the snow in wreaths ; Now every creature looks around for shelter, And, whether man and beast, all move alike Towards their homes, and happy they who have A house to screen them from the piercing cold !

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Lo! o'er the frost a reverend form advances,
His hair white as the snow on which he treads,
His forehead mark'd with many a care-worn furrow,
Whose feeble body, bending o'er a staff,
Shows still that once it was the seat of strength,
Though now it shakes like some old ruin'd tower.
Cloth’d, it is true, but not disgraced with rags,
He still maintains that decent dignity
Which well becomes those who have served their

With tottering steps he gains the cottage-door:
The wife within, who hears his hollow cough,
And pattering of his stick upon the threshold,
Sends out her little boy to see who's there.
The child looks up to mark the stranger's face,
And, seeing it enlighten'd with a smile,
Holds out his tiny hand to lead him in.
Round from her work the mother turns her head,
And views them, not ill pleased.
The stranger whines not with a piteous tale,
But only asks a little to relieve
A poor old soldier's wants.
The gentle matron brings the ready chair,
And bids him sit to rest his weary limbs,
And warm himself before her blazing fire.
The children, full of curiosity,
Flock round, and, with their fingers in their mouths,
Stand staring at him ; while the stranger, pleased,

the youngest urchin on his knee. Proud of its seat, it wags its little feet, And prates and laughs, and plays with his white locks. But soon a change comes o'er the soldier's face; His thoughtful mind is turn'd on other days, When his own boys were wont to play around him, Who now lie distant from their native land In honourable but untimely graves. He feels how helpless and forlorn he is, And big round tears course down his wither'd cheeks. His toilsome daily labour at an end, In comes the wearied master of the house, And marks with satisfaction his old guest In the chief seat, with all the children round him;

Takes up

His honest heart is fill'd with manly kindness :
He bids him stay and share their homely meal,
And take with them his quarters for the night.
The aged wanderer thankfully accepts,
And by the simple hospitable board
Forgets the by-past hardships of the day.


The shade of death is o'er thee now,

My fair and cherish'd child ;
His seal upon thy placid brow,

Good-night!” thy lips have smiled.
How strangely on thy mother's ear

Those last soft accents fell-
The voice her bosom yearn’d to hear,

But woke to breathe farewell !
Farewell to life! for thee its glow

Was one bright, joyous ray ;
But storms were coming on, and thou

Art fled to cloudless day.
Around thee beam'd a cherub band,

Thy playmates of the sky,
To them thou gavest thy willing hand,

To us a gentle sigh.
Not long the dewy turf must fold thee

Far from our shaded sight;
With morn again we shall behold thee:

Till then, sweet babe, good-night !


SWEET to the morning traveller

amid the sky,
Where twinkling in the dewy light,
The skylark soars on high.

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