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His lines on Dawn are very choice-dewy and fragrant :

the window.

'Tis a morn for life

Throw up
In its most subtle luxury.

The air

Is like a breathing from a rarer world;

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And the south wind is like a gentle friend,
Parting the hair so softly on my brow.
It has come over gardens, and the flowers
That kissed it are betrayed: for as it parts,
With its invisible fingers, my loose hair,

I know it has been trifling with the rose,"
And stooping to the violet. There is joy
For all God's creatures in it. The wet leaves
Are stirring at its touch, and birds are singing
As if to breathe were music, and the grass
Sends up its modest odour with the dew,
Like the small tribute of humility.

*

*

S. J. CLARKE ("Grace Greenwood") is the writer of these glowing stanzas on Love's Sweet Memories:

Canst thou forget, beloved, our first awaking

From out the shadowy calms of doubts and dreams,
To know Love's perfect sunlight round us breaking,
Bathing our beings in its gorgeous gleams—
Canst thou forget?

A sky of rose and gold was o'er us glowing,
Around us was the morning breath of May;
Then met our soul-tides, thence together flowing,

Then kissed our thought-waves, mingling on their way:
Canst thou forget?

*

Canst thou forget the childlike heart-outpouring
Of her whose fond faith knew no faltering fears?
The lashes drooped to veil her eyes adoring,
Her speaking silence, and her blissful tears—
Canst thou forget?
Canst thou forget, though all Love's spells be broken,
The wild farewell, which rent our souls apart?
And that last gift, affection's holiest token,

The severed tress, which lay upon thy heart-
Canst thou forget?

Here is CROLY's fine tribute to Domestic Love :

O, love of loves!-to thy white hand is given
Of earthly happiness the golden key!
Thine are the joyous hours of winter's even,
When the babes cling around their father's knee;
And thine the voice, that on the midnight sea
Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home,

Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see.
Spirit! I've built a shrine; and thou hast come,
And on its altar closed-forever closed thy plume!

We close our Fifth Poetic Evening with some of HORACE SMITH'S pictorial stanzas, entitled A Hymn to the Flowers:

Day-stars! that ope your eyes with morn, tc twinkie
From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation,
And dew-drops on her holy altars sprinkle,
As a libation!

Ye matin-worshippers! who, bending owly
Before the uprisen sun, God's lidles: eye,
Throw your chalices a sweet and holy
Incense on high !

Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty
The floor of Nature's temple tessellate,
What numerous emblems of instructive duty
Your forms create!

*

Your voiceless lips, O Flowers! are living preachers,
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book,
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers

From loneliest nook!

Floral apostles! that, in aewy splendour,

"Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," O, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender, Your lore sublime!

Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary

For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Each fading calyx a memento mori,

Yet fount of hope!

Posthumous glories! angel-like collection!
Upraised from seed or bulb interred in eartn,
Ye are to me a type of resurrection

And second birta.

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