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Like the wild stag she flees away,

Her fear plants many a thicket wild; While he pursues her night and day, By various arts of love beguiled;

By various arts of love and hate;
Till, (the wide desert planted o'er
With labyrinths of wayward love,

Where roam the lion, wolf, and boar,)

Till he becomes a wayward babe,
And she a weeping woman old.
Then many a lover wanders here;

The sun and stars are nearer roll'd;

The trees bring forth sweet ecstasy
To all who in the desert roam;

Till many a city there is built,

And many a pleasant shepherd's home.

But when they find the frowning babe, Terror strikes through the region wide,—

They cry,

"The Babe, the Babe is born!"

And flee away on every side.

For who dare touch the frowning form,
His arm is wither'd to its root;

Lions, bears, wolves, all howling flee,
And every tree does shed its fruit.

And none can touch that frowning form, Except it be a woman old;

She nails him down upon the rock,

And all is done as I have told.

THE LAND OF DREAMS.

AWAKE, awake, my little boy!

Thou wast thy mother's only joy.

Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?
Awake, thy Father does thee keep.

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O, what land is the Land of Dreams,

What are its mountains, and what are its streams?

O Father, I saw my Mother there,

Among the lilies by waters fair.

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Among the lambs clothed in white,

She walk'd with her Thomas in sweet delight;

I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn,

O, when shall I again return ?"

Dear child, I also by pleasant streams,

Have wander'd all night in the Land of Dreams. But though calm and warm the waters wide,

I could not get to the other side.

แ Father, O Father! what do we here, In this land of unbelief and fear?

The Land of Dreams is better far

Above the light of the Morning Star."

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MARY.

WEET Mary, the first time she ever was there, Came into the ball-room among the fair, The young men and maidens around her throng. And these are the words upon every tongue :—

"An Angel is here from the heavenly climes, Or again does return the golden times;

Her

eyes outshine every brilliant ray;

She opens her lips—'tis the month of May.

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Mary moves in soft beauty and conscious delight

To augment with sweet smiles all the joys of the night,
Nor once blushes to own to the rest of the fair
That sweet Love and Beauty are worthy our care."

In the morning the villagers rose with delight
And repeated with pleasure the joys of the night,
And Mary arose among friends to be free,

But no friend from henceforward thou, Mary, shalt see.

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