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THERE's beauty in the deep:-
The wave is bluer than the sky;

And though the light shine bright on high,
More softly do the sea-gems glow,
That sparkle in the depths below;
The rainbow's tints are only made
When on the waters they are laid,

And sun and moon most sweetly shine
Upon the ocean's level brine.

There's beauty in the deep.

There's music in the deep:-
It is not in the surf's rough roar,
Nor in the whispering, shelly shore;-
They are but earthly sounds, that tell
How little of the sea-nymph's shell,
That sends its loud, clear note abroad,
Or winds its softness through the flood,
Echoes through groves with coral gay,
And dies, on spongy banks, away
There's music in the deep.

There's quiet in the deep:Above, let tides and tempests rave, And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave; Above, let care and fear contend With sin and sorrow to the end: Here, far beneath the tainted foam, That frets above our peaceful home, We dream in joy, and wake in love, Nor know the rage that yells above. There's quiet in the deep.

ᎪᎡ Ꭲ .

SPRAGUE.

WHEN, from the sacred garden driven,
Man fled before his Maker's wrath,
ART left for him her place in heaven,

To guide the wanderer's sunless path.

She led him through the trackless wild,
Where noon-tide sunbeam never blazed:-
The thistle shrank-the harvest smiled,

And Nature gladden'd as she gazed.
Earth's thousand tribes of living things,
At Art's command, to him are given;
The village grows, the city springs,
And point their spires of faith to heaven.
He rends the oak,--and bids it ride,

To guard the shores its beauty graced;
He smites the rock,-upheaved in pride,
See towers of strength, and domes of taste.

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Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal;
Fire bears his banner on the wave;
He bids the mortal poison heal,

And leaps triumphant o'er the grave.
He plucks the pearls that stud the deep,
Admiring Beauty's lap to fill:
He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep,
And forms it with a master's skill
With thoughts that swell his glowing soul,
He bids the oar illume the page,
And proudly scorning Time's control,
Commerces with an unborn age.

In fields of air he writes his name, And treads the chambers of the sky; He reads the stars and grasps the flame That quivers round the Throne on high. In war renown'd, in peace sublime,

He moves in greatness and in grace; His power, subduing space and time,

Links realm to realm, and race to race.

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That never will in other climate grow, My early visitation, and my last

At even, which I bred up with tender hand
From the first opening bud, and gave ye names!
Who now shall rear ye to the Sun, or rank
Your tribes, and water from th' ambrosial fount?
Thee lastly, nuptial bower! by me adorned
With what to sight or smell was sweet! from thee
How shall I part, and whither wander down
Into a lower world; to this obscure

And wild? how shall we breathe in other air
Less pure, accustom'd to immortal fruits?

TO THE DAISY.

FLETCHER.

LITTLE flower with starry brow, Slumbering in thy bed of snow; Or with lightly tinged ray, Winter gone and storms away, Peeping from thy couch of green With modest head and simple mien; How I love to see thee lie,

In thy low serenity,

Basking in the gladsome beam;
Or, beside some murmuring stream
Gently bowing from thy nest
Greet the water's silver breast.
Or mid fissure of the rock,
Hidden from the tempest's shock,
Vie with snowy lily's bell-
Queen and fairy of the dell.

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Thee nor wind nor storm ean tear
From thy lonely mountain lair;
Nor the sleety, sweeping rain,
Root thee from thy native plain.
Winter's cold, nor Summer's heat,
Blights thee in thy snug retreat;
Chill'd by snow or scorch'd by flame,
Thou for ever art the same.
Type of truth, and emblem fair
Of virtue struggling through despair,
Close may sorrows hem it round,
Troubles bend it to the ground
Yet the soul within is calm,
Dreads no anguish, fears no harm:
Conscious that the Hand which tries
All its latent energies,

Can, with more than equal power,
Bear it through temptation's hour,
Still the conflict, soothe its sighs,
And plant it 'neath congenial skies.

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I love to watch at silent eve,

Thy scatter'd blossoms' lonely light,
And have my inmost heart receive
The influence of that sight.

I love at such an hour to mark
Their beauty greet the night breeze chill,
And shine, 'mid shadows gathering dark,
The garden's glory still.

For such 'tis sweet to think the while,
When cares and griefs the breast invade,
Is friendship's animating smile
In sorrow's dark'ning shade.

Thus it bursts forth like thy pale cup,
Glist'ning amid its dewy tears,
And bears the sinking spirit up,
Amid its chilling fears.

But still more animating far,

If meek Religion's eye may trace,
Even in thy glimm'ring earth-born star,
The holier hope of grace.

The hope that as thy beauteous bloom,
Expands to glad the close of day;
So through the shadows of the tomb,
May break forth Mercy's ray.

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