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"O Earth, O Earth, return!

Arise from out the dewy grass !
Night is worn,

And the morn

Rises from the slumb'rous mass.

L

"Turn away no more;

Why wilt thou turn away?

The starry floor,

The watery shore,

Are given thee till the break of day."

EARTH'S ANSWER.

EARTH raised up her head

From the darkness dread and drear,

Her light fled,

Stony, dread,

And her locks covered with grey despair.

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"Prisoned on watery shore,

Starry jealousy does keep my den

Cold and hoar:

Weeping o'er,

I hear the father of the ancient men,

"Selfish father of men!

Cruel, jealous, selfish fear!

Can delight,

Chained in night,

The virgins of youth and morning bear?

"Does spring hide its joy,

When buds and blossoms grow?

Does the sower

Sow by night,

Or the ploughman in darkness plough?

"Break this heavy chain,

That does freeze my bones around!

Selfish, vain,

Eternal bane,

That free love with bondage bound."

THE CLOD AND THE PEBBLE.

"LOVE seeketh not itself to please,

Nor for itself hath any care,

But for another gives its ease,

And builds a heaven in hell's despair."

So sang a little clod of clay,

Trodden with the cattle's feet.

But a pebble of the brook

Warbled out these metres meet :

"Love seeketh only Self to please, To bind another to its delight,

Joys in another's loss of ease,

And builds a hell in heaven's despite."

HOLY THURSDAY.

Is this a holy thing to see

In a rich and fruitful land--

Babes reduced to misery,

Fed with cold and usurous hand?

Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty !

And their sun does never shine,

And their fields are bleak and bare, And their ways are filled with thorns : It is eternal winter there.

For where'er the sun does shine,
And where'er the rain does fall,
Babes should never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appal.

THE LITTLE GIRL LOST.

IN futurity

I prophetic see

That the earth from sleep

(Grave the sentence deep)

Shall arise and seek
For her Maker meek;
And the desert wild
Become a garden mild.

In the southern clime,
Where the Summer's prime
Never fades away,

Lovely Lyca lay.

Seven summers old

Lovely Lyca told.

She had wandered long,
Hearing wild birds' song.

L

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