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LUCY.

THY favourite bird is soaring still:
My Lucy, haste thee o'er the dale;
The stream's let loose, and from the mill,
All silent comes the balmy gale;
Yet, so lightly on its way,
Seems to whisper, "Holiday."

The pathway flowers that bending meet,
And give the meads their yellow hue,
The may-bush and the meadow-sweet
Reserve their fragrance all for you.
Why then, Lucy, why delay ?
Let us share the Holiday.

Since there thy smiles, my charming maid,
Are with unfeigned rapture seen,

To beauty be the homage paid;

Come, claim the triumph of the Green.
Here's my hand, come, come away;
Share the merry Holiday.

A promise too my Lucy made,

(And shall my heart its claim resign ?)
That ere May-flowers again should fade,
Her heart and hand should both be mine.
Hark'ye, Lucy, this is May;
Love shall crown our Holiday.

WOODLAND HALLO.

IN our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood,

I am mistress, no mother have I;

Yet blithe are my days, for my father is good,

And kind is my lover hard by;

They both work together beneath the green shade,

Both woodmen, my father and Joe;

Where I've listen'd whole hours to the echo that made

From my basket at noon they expect their supply, And with joy from my threshold I spring;

For the woodlands I love, and the oaks waving high, And echo that sings as I sing.

Though deep shades delight me, yet love is my food, As I call the dear name of my Joe;

His musical shout is the pride of the wood,

And my heart leaps to hear the-Hallo.

Simple flowers of the grove, little birds live at ease, I wish not to wander from you;

I'll still dwell beneath the deep roar of

your trees,

For I know that my Joe will be true.
The trill of the robin, the coo of the dove,
Are charms that I'll never forego;

But resting through life on the bosom of love,
Will remember the Woodland Hallo.

LOVE OF THE COUNTRY.

WELCOME silence! welcome peace!
O most welcome, holy shade!
Thus I prove, as years increase,

My heart and soul for quiet made.

Thus I fix my firm belief

While rapture's gushing tears descend,
That every flower and every leaf

Is moral Truth's unerring friend.

I would not for a world of gold

That Nature's lovely face should tire ;
Fountain of blessings yet untold;

Pure source of intellectual fire!

Fancy's fair buds, the germs of song,

Unquicken'd midst the world's rude strife,

Shall sweet retirement render strong,

Then tell me not that I shall grow
Forlorn, that fields and woods will cloy;
From Nature and her changes flow
An everlasting tide of joy.

I grant that summer heats will burn,
That keen will come the frosty night;
But both shall please: and each in turn
Yield reason's most supreme delight.

Build me a shrine, and I could kneel
To rural gods, or prostrate fall;
Did I not see, did I not feel,

That one GREAT SPIRIT governs all.

O Heaven permit that I may lie

Where o'er my corse green branches wave;

And those who from life's tumult fly

With kindred feelings press my grave.

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Then tell me not that I shall grow
Forlorn, that fields and woods will cloy;
From Nature and her changes flow
An everlasting tide of joy.

I grant that summer heats will burn,
That keen will come the frosty night;
But both shall please: and each in turn
Yield reason's most supreme delight.

Build me a shrine, and I could kneel
To rural gods, or prostrate fall;
Did I not see, did I not feel,

That one GREAT SPIRIT governs all.
O Heaven permit that I may lie

Where o'er my corse green branches wave;

And those who from life's tumult fly

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