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It must be sweet in childhood to give back The spirit to its Maker, ere the heart Has grown familiar with the paths of sin, And sown, to garner up its bitter fruits. I knew a boy whose infant feet had trod Upon the blossoms of some seven springs, And…

Time is drawing nearer, nearer, While our heads are turning gray; Tears are falling on life's mirror Every day! Time is closing beauty's portals, Flowers are blooming to decay; Fate is delving graves for mortals Every day! While our…

Bear thee up bravely, Strong heart and true, Meet thy woes gravely, Strive with them too! Let them not win from thee Tears of regret; Such were a sin for thee— Hope for good yet! Rouse thee from drooping, Care-laden soul. Mournfully…

Now is a constant warning stroke, Beat by the ceaseless clock of Time; A voice our wisdom to evoke, A mandate solemnly sublime; It bids us keep the soul awake, To do the best our means allow; To toil for truth's and virtue's sake, And make the…

Mistaken mortal, ever fretting, Grasping, grinding, groaning, getting, Be content! If thou hast enough, be thankful, Just as if thou had a bankful, Be content! If fortune cast thy lot but humble, Earn thy bread and do not grumble, Be…

Slowly o'er his darkened features, Stole the warning shades of death; And we knew the shadowing angel Waited for his parting breath. He had started for his freedom, And his heart beat firm and high— But before he won the guerdon, Came the…

I loved them soThat when the elder Sheperd of the foldCam, covered with the storm, and pale and cold,And begged for one of my sweet lambs to hold,I bade him go.He claimed the pet,A little foundling thing, that to my breastClung always, either in…

We find the following clever parody on Wordsworth's celebrated "Old Oaken Bucket" in the (old) "Spirit of the Times:" How sweet to the taste is the Irish potato, As memory awakens a thought of the plant; Its dark verdant vine-top and beautiful…

My sorrow is no dream—the earth has none Whose bosom-chords are quivering for me; If the unending universe bears one, My mother—oh! my mother!—it is thee. And since the dark grave veiled thee from my sight, I have endured the loneliness of…

I wish I was again a child, To gambol on my native sward, To roam amid the woodly wild, And climb the jutting rocks so hard. How swift the winged moments then! How light of heart when school was o'er, I shelved the satchel, book and pen, The…
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