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H! the broom, the bonny, bonny broom,

On my native hills it grows;

I had rather see the bonny broom, Than the rarest flower that blows. Oh! the yellow broom is blossoming, In my own dear country;

I never thought so small a thing

THE BROOM.

As a flower my nerveless heart could wring, Or draw a tear from me.

It minds me of my native hills,

Clad in the heath and fen;

Of the green strath and the flowery brae, Of the glade and the rockless glen;

It minds me of dearer things than these-
Of love with life entwined,

Of humble faith on bended knees,
Of home joys gone, and memories,
Like sere leaves, left behind!

It minds me of that blessed time,
Of the friends so true to me,
Of my warm-hearted Highland love,
When the broom was the trysting-tree.
I loathe this fair but foreign strand,
With its fadeless summer bloom;
And I swear, by my own dear native land,
Again on the heathy hills to stand,
Where waves the yellow broom.

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N Leven's banks, while free to rove
And tune the rural pipe to love,

I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod th' Arcadian plain.
Pure stream, in whose transparent wave

My youthful limbs I wont to lave,
No torrents stain thy limpid source,
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,

With white, round, polished pebbles spread;
While, lightly poised, the scaly brood
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood;
The springing trout, in speckled pride;
The salmon, monarch of the tide;

The ruthless pike, intent on war;
The silver eel, and mottled par;
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bowers of birch and groves of pine,
And edges flowered with eglantine.
Still on thy banks so gayly green

May numerous flocks and herds be seen;
And lasses chanting o'er the pail,

And shepherds piping in the dale;

And ancient faith that knows no guile,

And industry imbrowned by toil,

And hearts resolved, and hands prepared,

The blessings they enjoy to guard.

TOBIAS GEORGE SMOLLET.

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The blessed God, who cares
For all my little leaves,
Went up the silent praise;
And I was glad with joy
Which life of laboring things
Ill knows- the joy that sinks
Into a life of rest.

Ages have fled since then,
But deem not my fierce trunk
And scanty leafage serve
No high behest; my name
Is sounded far and wide;
And in the Providence

That guides the steps of men,

Hundreds have come to view

My grandeur in decay;

And there hath pass'd from me

A quiet influence

Into the minds of men:
The silver head of age,

The majesty of laws,
The very name of God,
And holiest things that are,
Have won upon the heart
Of human kind the more,

For that I stand to meet
With vast and bleaching trunk,

The rudeness of the sky.

HENRY ALFORD.

THE PHEASANT.

LOSE by the borders of the fringed lake,

And on the oak's expanded bough, is seen, What time the leaves the passing zephyrs shake, And gently murmur through the sylvan scene, The gaudy Pheasant, rich in varying dyes, That fade alternate, and alternate glow: Receiving now his color from the skies, And now reflecting back the watery bow. He flaps his wings, erects his spotless crest, His flaming eyes dart forth a piercing ray; He swells the lovely plumage of his breast, And glares a wonder of the Orient day.

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THE THRUSH.

ONGSTER of the russet coat,
Full and liquid is thy note;

Plain thy dress, but great thy skill,
Captivating at thy will.

Small musician of the field,

Near my bower thy tribute yield, Little servant of the ear,

Ply thy task, and never fear.

I will learn from thee to praise
God, the Author of my days;
I will learn from thee to sing,
Christ, my Saviour and my King;
Learn to labor with my voice,
Make the sinking heart rejoice.

T last the golden oriental gate

Of greatest heaven 'gan to open fair,

And Phoebus, fresh as bridegroom to his mate,
Came dancing forth, shaking his dewy hair;

And hurls his glistening beams through gloomy air.

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"Tis winter, yet there is no sound Along the air

Of winds along their battle-ground;
But gently there

The snow is falling, — all around
How fair, how fair!

RALPH HOYT.

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