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Whose voice has gone forth, but each sur

vives for the melodist, When eternity affirms the conception

of an hour. The high that proved too high, the heroic

for earth too hard, The passion that left the ground to lose

itself in the sky, Are music sent up to God by the lover

and the bard; Enough that he heard it once: we shall

hear it by and by.

-Robert Browning.

HE'D NOTHING BUT HIS

VIOLIN

H

E’D nothing but his violin,

I'd nothing but my song; But we were wed when skies

were blue

And summer days were long; And when we rested by the hedge,

The robins came and told
How they had dared to woo and win,

When early Spring was cold.

We sometimes supped on dew-berries,

Or slept among the hay,
But oft the farmers' wives at eve

Came out to hear us play;
The rare old songs, the dear old tunes,-

We could not starve for long While my man had his violin And I my sweet love-song.

-Mary Kyle Dallas.

EVENING

A

VE MARIA-blessed be the

hour, The time, the clime, the

spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its

fullest power

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and

soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant

tower, Or the faint dying day him stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy

air,

And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred

with prayer.

O Hesperus ! thou bringest all good

things, Home to the weary, to the hungry

cheer, To the young bird the parent's brooding Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone

wings, The welcome stall to the o'er-labored

steer;

clings, Whate'er our household gods protect

of dear, Are gathered round us by thy look of

rest; Thou bring'st the child, too, to the

mother's breast.

Soft hour! which wakes the wish and

melts the heart Of those who sail the seas, on the first

day When they from their sweet friends are

torn apart; Or fills with love the pilgrim on his

way, As the far bell of vesper makes him

start, Seeming to weep the dying day's

decay: Is this a fancy which our reason scorns? Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns.

-Lord Byron. HARK, HARK! THE LARK

ARK, hark! the lark at

heaven's gate sings, H

And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those

springs
On chaliced flower that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes;
With everything that pretty bin,
My lady sweet, arise!

-William Shakespeare.

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