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Nor on the surges of the boundless air,

Though borne triumphant, are they safe; the gun
Glanced just, and sudden, from the fowler's eye
O'ertakes their sounding pinions; and again,
Immediate, brings them from the towering wing,
Dead to the ground; or drives them wide-dispersed,
Wounded, and wheeling various, down the wind.

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POOR is the triumph o'er the timid hare!
Scared from the corn and now to some lone seat
Retired: the rushy fen; the ragged furze;
Stretch'd o'er the stony heath; the stubble chapp'd;
The thistly lawn; the thick-entangled broom;
Of the same friendly hue, the wither'd fern;
The fallow ground laid open to the sun,
Concoctive; and the nodding sandy bank,
Hung o'er the mazes of the mountain brook.
Vain is her best precaution, though she sits
Conceal'd with folded ears, unsleeping eyes,
By Nature raised to take the horizon in:

And head couch'd close betwixt her hairy feet,
In act to spring away. The scented dew
Betrays her early labyrinth; and deep,
In scatter'd sullen openings, far behind,

With every breeze she hears the coming storm.

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But nearer and more frequent, as it loads
The sighing gale, she springs amazed, and all
The savage soul of game is up at once:
The pack full-opening, various, the shrill horn
Resounded from the hills; the neighing steed,
Wild for the chase: and the loud hunter's shout;
O'er a weak, harmless, flying creature, all
Mix'd in mad tumult, and discordant joy.

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THE RISING OF THE SUN.

WAKE! wake! wake to the hunting!
Wake ye, wake! the morning is nigh!
Chilly the breezes blow

Up from the sea below,

Chilly the twilight creeps over the sky!
Mark how fast the stars are fading!
Mark how wide the dawn is spreading!

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Rise, rise! look on the ocean!
Rise ye, rise, and look on the sky!
Softly the vapours sweep
Over the level deep,

Softly the mists on the waterfall lie!
In the cloud red tints are glowing,
On the hill the black cock's crowing;
And through the welkin red,

See where he lifts his head,

(Forth to the hunting!) The sun's riding high!

Reginald Heber.

[graphic]

FADING FLOWERS.

HE purple iris hangs his head
On his lean stalk, and so declines;
The spider spills his silver thread

Between the bells of columbines :
An alter'd light in flickering eves

Draws dews thro' these dim eyes of ours:
Death walks in yonder waning bowers,
And burns the blistering leaves.

Ah, well-a-day!

Blooms overblow:

Suns sink away:

Sweet things decay.

The drunken beetle, roused ere night,
Breaks blundering from the rotting rose,

Flits thro' blue spidery aconite,

And hums, and comes, and goes:

His thick, bewilder'd song receives

A drowsy sense of grief like ours:

He hums and hums among the bowers, And bangs about the leaves.

Ah, well-a-day!

Hearts overflow:

Joy flits away:
Sweet things decay.

Her yellow stars the jasmine drops
In mildew'd mosses one by one:

The hollyhocks fall off their tops:

The lotus-blooms all white i' the sun: The freckled foxglove faints and grieves; The smooth-paced slumbrous slug devours. The glewy globes of gorgeous flowers, And smears the glistering leaves.

Ah, well-a-day!

Life leaves us so:
Love dare not stay:
Sweet things decay.

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