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There is a brighter book unrolling now;
Fair are its leaves as is the tree of heaven,
All veined, and dewed, and gemmed with wondrous signs,
To which a healing, mystic power is given.

A thousand voices to its study call,
From the fair hill-top, from the water-fall;
Where the bird singeth, and the yellow bee,
And the breeze talketh from the airy tree.

Now is that glorious resurrection time,
When all earth's buried beauties have new birth:
Behold the yearly miracle complete, —
God hath created a new heaven and earth!

No tree that wants his joyful garments now,
No flower but hastes his bravery to don ;
God bids thee to this marriage-feast of joy,
Let thy soul put the wedding garment on.

All fringed with festal gold the barberry stands,
The ferns exultant clap their new-made wings,
The hemlock rustles broideries of fresh green,
And thousand bells of pearl the blueberry rings.

The long, light fingers of the old white pines
Do beckon thee into the fickering wood,
Where moving spots of light show mystic flowers,
And wavering music fills the dreamy hours.

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See how the pines push off their last year's leaves,
And stretch beyond them with exultant bound;
The grass and flowers with living power o'ergrow
Their last year's remnants on the greening ground.

Wilt thou then all thy wintry feelings keep,
The old dead routine of thy book-writ lore,
Nor deem that God can teach by one bright hour
What life hath never taught to thee before?

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Cease, cease to think, and be content to be ;
Swing safe at anchor in fair Nature's bay;
Reason no more, but o'er thy quiet soul
Let God's sweet teachings ripple their soft way.

Soar with the birds, and Autter with the leaf;
Dance with the seeded grass in fringy play ;
Sail with the cloud; wave with the dreaming pine,
And Aoat with Nature all the livelong day.

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Call not such hours an idle waste of life ;
Land that lies fallow gains a quiet power ;
It treasures from the brooding of God's wings
Strength to unfold the future tree and flower.

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And when the summer's glorious show is paft,
Its miracles no longer charm thy sight,
The treasured riches of these thoughtful hours
Shall make thy wintry musings warm and bright.

Mrs. H. B. Stowe.

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NLY waiting till the shadows

Are a little longer grown ;
Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is fown;
Till the night of earth is faded

From the heart once full of day ;
Till the stars of heaven are breaking

Through the twilight soft and gray.

Only waiting till the reapers

Have the last fheaf gathered home;
For the summer-time is faded,

And the autumn winds have come.
Quickly, reapers, gather quickly

The last ripe hours of my heart,
For the bloom of life is withered,

And I hasten to depart.

Only waiting till the angels

Open wide the mystic gate, At whose foot I long have lingered,

Weary, poor, and desolate. Even now I hear the footsteps,

And their voices, far away ; If they call me, I am waiting,

Only waiting to obey.

Only waiting till the shadows

Are a little longer grown; Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is Aown:
Then from out the gathered darkness

Holy, deathless stars shall rise,
By whose light my soul shall gladly

Tread its pathway to the skies.


CATHER! into Thy loving hands

T My feeble spirit I commit, While wandering in these border-lands

Until Thy voice shall summon it.

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