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Ye are changed, ye are changed! — and I see not here All whom I saw in the vanished year!

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There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright,
Which tossed in the breeze with a play of light;
There were eyes in whose glistening laughter lay
No faint remembrance of dull decay!

There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head, 55 As if for a banquet all earth were spread;

There were voices that rang through the sapphire sky, And had not a sound of mortality!

Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains

passed?

Ye have looked on death since ye met me last!

I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now,
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow!
Ye have given the lovely to Earth's embrace,
She hath taken the fairest of Beauty's race,

With their laughing eyes and their festal crown:
They are gone from amongst you in silence down!

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They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair,

Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair!

But I know of a land where there falls no blight,

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I shall find them there, with their eyes of light! Where Death midst the blooms of the morn may dwell,

I tarry no longer, -farewell, farewell!

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The summer is coming, on soft wings borne,
Ye may press
the grape, ye may bind the corn!

For me, I depart to a brighter shore, —

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Ye are marked by care, ye are mine no more;
I go where the loved who have left you dwell,
And the flowers are not Death's. Fare ye well, fare-
well!

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A LEGEND OF THE NORTHLAND

PHOEBE CARY

AWAY, away in the Northland,

Where the hours of the day are few,
And the nights are so long in winter,
They cannot sleep them through ;

Where they harness the swift reindeer
To the sledges, when it snows;
And the children look like bear's cubs
In their funny, furry clothes:

They tell them a curious story-
I don't believe 't is true;
And yet you may learn a lesson
If I tell the tale to you.

Once, when the good Saint Peter
Lived in the world below,

And walked about it, preaching,
Just as he did, you know;

He came to the door of a cottage,
In travelling round the earth,

Where a little woman was making cakes,
And baking them on the hearth;

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And being faint with fasting,

For the day was almost done,

He asked her, from her store of cakes,
To give him a single one.

So she made a very little cake,
But as it baking lay,

She looked at it, and thought it seemed

Too large to give away.

Therefore she kneaded another,

And still a smaller one;

But it looked, when she turned it over,
As large as the first had done.

Then she took a tiny scrap of dough,

And rolled and rolled it flat; And baked it thin as a wafer

But she could n't part with that.

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For she said, "My cakes that seem too small When I eat of them myself,

Are yet too large to give away.'

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So she put them on the shelf.

Then good Saint Peter grew angry,
For he was hungry and faint;

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And surely such a woman

Was enough to provoke a saint.

And he said, "You are far too selfish

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To dwell in a human form, To have both food and shelter,

And fire to keep you warm.

"Now, you shall build as the birds do,

And shall get your scanty food
By boring, and boring, and boring,
All day in the hard dry wood."

Then up she went through the chimney,
Never speaking a word,

And out of the top flew a woodpecker,

For she was changed to a bird.

She had a scarlet cap on her head,

And that was left the same,

But all the rest of her clothes were burned

Black as a coal in the flame.

And every country school-boy

Has seen her in the wood;

Where she lives in the trees till this very day,

Boring and boring for food.

And this is the lesson she teaches:
Live not for yourself alone,
Lest the needs you will not pity
Shall one day be your own.

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Give plenty of what is given to you,

Listen to pity's call;

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Don't think the little you give is great,

And the much you get is small.

Now, my little boy, remember that,

And try to be kind and good,

When you see the woodpecker's sooty dress,

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And see her scarlet hood.

You may n't be changed to a bird, though you

live

As selfishly as you can ;

But you will be changed to a smaller thing—

A mean and selfish man.

THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL

(From the German of Julius Mosen)

HENRY WADSWORTH Longfellow

ON the cross the dying Saviour
Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm,
Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling
In his pierced and bleeding palm.

And by all the world forsaken,

Sees He how with zealous care
At the ruthless nail of iron

A little bird is striving there.

Stained with blood and never tiring,
With its beak it doth not cease,

From the cross 't would free the Saviour

Its Creator's Son release.

And the Saviour speaks in mildness:

"Blest be thou of all the good!

Bear, as token of this moment,

Marks of blood and holy rood!"

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