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WOULD ye be taught, ye feathered throng,

, With love's sweet notes to grace your song, To pierce the heart with thrilling lay, Listen to mine Anne Hathaway! She hath a way to sing so clear, Phæbus might wandering stop to hear. To melt the sad, make blithe the gay, And nature charm, Anne hath a way;

She hath a way,

Anne Hathaway;
To breathe delight, Anne hath a way.

When Envy's breath and rancorous tooth
Do soil and bite fair worth and truth,
And merit to distress betray,
To soothe the heart Anne hath a way.
She hath a way to chase despair,
To heal all grief, to cure all care,
Turn foulest night to fairest day,
Thou know'st, fond heart, Anne hath a way;

She hath a way,

Anne Hathaway;
To make grief bliss, Anne hath a way.

Talk not of gems, the Orient list,
The diamond, topaz, amethyst,
The emerald mild, the ruby gay,
Talk of my gem, Anne Hathaway!

She hath a way with her bright eye,
Their various lustres to defy-
The jewels she, and the foil they,
So sweet to look, Anne hath a way,

She hath a way,

Anne Hathaway;
To shame bright gems, Anne hath a way.

But were it to my fancy given
To rate her charms, I'd call them heaven;
For though a mortal made of clay
Angels must love Anne Hathaway;
She hath a way so to control,
To rapture, the imprisoned soul,
And sweetest heaven on earth display,
That to be heaven Anne hath a way;

She hath a way,

Anne Hathaway,
To be heaven's self, Anne hath a way.



Permission of the New England Publishing Company.


That spot that delighted my eyes when a boy! From the balm-breathing June to the mellowed Sep

tember, I hailed its fresh blossoms each morning with


In fancy I see it when eve, dark and chilly,

O'ercasting the city, forbids me to roam : In memory blossom the rose and the lily

When solitude freshens the pictures of home.

I seem on the garden-gate swinging and singing,

Or on the bars leaning in summer eres long; And, waiting my father his team homeward bring.

ing, I list once again to the whippoorwill's song.

I remember the porch where the woodbine in

clusters Of billowy green o'er the white roses hung; The swallows, whose purple and emerald lustres

Shot swift through the air where the orioles sung.

O'er the old mossy wall, in the mellow airs blow

ing, The lilies made fragrant the evenings of May; And close by the door where the house-leeks were

growing, My grandmother's garden, my pleasure-ground,


Anear was the orchard, the moss to it clinging,

The home of the birds and the banquet of bees : I loved, in the spring-time, when church-bells were

ringing, The peaceful white Sundays that came to the My grandmother's garden with green box was bor


dered ; There bloomed the blue myrtles, the first flowers

of spring; There the peony's leaves seemed with pansies em

broidered; And hands of the fairies the bluebells to swing.

The balm-bed was there; the sweets from its

flowers The humming-birds, gemming the air, came to

draw : And peeped from the woodbine and jessamine

bowers The hives of the honey-bees golden with straw.

There oft, with her hymn-book, my grandmother

wandered, Then seated herself in the arbor alone. And read the old hymns and on holy themes pon

dered, While long on the hill-tops the western light


The well-sweep was there in the elm-tree's broad

shadow, And o'er it the golden-dressed orioles swung, And a path from the old road and path from the

meadow At the broad curb-stone met where the cool

bucket hung

They are gone, all are gone, whom that garden once

gladdened : No more shall I see them—the young or the old : Nor my grandmother's face with long memories sad

dened; Her crown of bright silver is changed into gold.

Dimmer lights have the springs and the summers

that follow; The charm of the roses is not now as then; In duller gold skies flits the purple-winged swallow;

My heart ne'er will feel its old freshness again.

The joys youth expected were lost in the winning; The distance enchanting from death's door is

gone; And life a lost thread, like the fire-fly's, is spinning :

I am lonely at night and am weary at morn.


But oft, with emotion that time doth not harden,

I turn to my old home, its lessons recall; And the brightest of scenes is my grandmother's

garden, Its pansies of spring, and its asters of fall.

And wherever I roam, in whatever bright harbor

The anchor may drop, I remember with joy The hymns that in summer-time rose from the arbor In that blooming garden when I was a boy.


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