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'TIS the merry nightingale

That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With thick fast warble his delicious notes,
As he were fearful that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburden his full soul
Of all its music.

COLERIDGE

SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours Of winters past, or coming, void of care, Well pleased with delights which present are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers; To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare, A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. What soul can be so sick which by thy songs (Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverend eye and thought to Heaven? Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.

DRUMMOND.

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MINE be a cot beside the hill;

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill,

With many a fall, shall linger near.

The swallow oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter near her clay-built nest;

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing, In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church beneath the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.

ROGERS.

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TRIUMPHAL arch that fill'st the sky,

When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud philosophy

To teach me what thou art.

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,

A mid-way station given

For happy spirits to alight,

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamed of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant brow?

How glorious is thy girdle cast

O'er mountain, tower, and town,

Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!

For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age
That first spoke peace to man.

CAMPBELL.

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