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I hear them in tempests,

I see them in cloud

In the voice of the thunder

They reason aloud.

Though gold has its friendships
That cling to it well,
Acquaintance and lovers
Too many to tell;
Yet I, too, by myriads,

Have friends of my own,
Who pay me sweet visits
When I am alone.

All saints and apostles,
All prophets divine,

All sages and poets,

Are teachers of mine

My friends and my teachers

Wherever I roam,

The guides of my spirit,

The lights of my home!

And, crown of all riches,

Far better than pelf,

I've a true heart who loves me

For sake of myself.

With these and my patience,

And strength to endure,

My health, and my honour,

How can I be poor ?

CHARLES MACKAY.

THE HILLS.

UPON the hills, upon the hills!

The ever fresh and free!

To bound along with the living breeze
That blows so joyously!
What a thrill of youthful vigour
Its magic breathings give!

In life's throng'd vale I do but move,
Upon the hills I live!

Oh! for a painter's hand,

To catch the gloom or glow
Which sun and shade alternately

O'er the boundless prospect throw!
The dark brown heath, the glistening fern,
The whortle's golden green;

The aged thorn, the copsewood oak,

And the lights that shoot between.

The tricolor polygala

That springs beneath my feet,
And the golden cross of the tormentil

Spangling the turf so sweet;

My earliest childhood loved

To gather these fair flowers;

And I love them still for their own sweet selves,

And the memory of past hours.

Upon the hills, the mighty hills,
On every side that rise!
Their bases in the ocean,

Their summits in the skies!
Symbols of power majestic,
Relics of ancient time!
With each ascending footstep
My spirit seems to climb!

And must I quit your freedom,
And, fetter'd, toil again,
Amid the dull routine of life,

The crowded haunts of men?

Yes,-life is not for rapture,

But for willing self-denial;

For faith, and love, and righteousness, Still perfected by trial.

Then, onward! in well-doing:

Tread selfish visions down;

Not indolent emotion,

But patience wins the crown.

And, when wearied in life's battle,

Let the thought of hours like these

Refresh thy fainting spirit,

As the fanning of the breeze.

But,-chiefest,-onward,-upward,

Be fix'd thine earnest sight,

Where rise the Everlasting Hills,
Where spreads the Infinite!
Upon that new creation,

Where the pure in heart shall see
That GOODNESS perfected is BLISS,

And TRUTH is—LIBERTY.

REV. H. S. ESCOTT.

THE SOUL'S ERRAND.

[This bold and spirited little Poem, dating as early as 1593, has been ascribed to several Authors, but to none on satisfactory authority.]

Go, Soul, the body's guest,
Upon a thankless errand,
Fear not to touch the best,
The truth shall be thy warrant ;
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.

Go, tell the Court it glows,
And shines like rotten wood,
Go, tell the Church it shows
What's good and doth no good,
If Church and court reply,
Then-give them both the lie.

Tell potentates they live,
Acting by others actions,
Not lov'd, unless they give,
Not strong but by their factions;
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate;
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who, in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending;
And if they make reply,
Then-give them all the lie.

Tell Zeal it lacks devotion,
Tell Love it is but lust,
Tell Time it is but motion,
Tell Flesh it is but dust;
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.

Tell Age it daily wasteth,
Tell Honour how it alters,

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