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A feeling of sadness and longing,

That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles rain.

Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling

And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters

Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of time.

For, like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavour ;

And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humble poet,

Whose songs gush'd from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer,

Or tears from the eyelids start.

Who, through long days of labour,

And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume The

poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the pret

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.

AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY.

The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,

The river dead.

Through clouds like ashes,
The red sun flashes
On village windows

That glimmer red.

The snow recommences :
The buried fence
Mark no longer

The road o'er the plain ;

While through the meadows,
Like fearful shadows,
Slowly passes

A funeral train.

The bell is pealing,
And every feeling
Within me responds

To the dismal knell;

Shadows are trailing,
My neart is bewailing
And tolling within

Like a funeral bell.

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