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As I sit apart by the desert stone,

Like Elijah at Horeb's cave,

alone,

"A still small voice" comes through the wild,
Like a father consoling his fretful child,
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear,
Saying-Man is distant, but God is near!

Thomas Pringle [1789-1834]

SPRING SONG IN THE CITY

WHO remains in London,

In the streets with me,
Now that Spring is blowing
Warm winds from the sea;
Now that trees grow green and tall,

Now the sun shines mellow,
And with moist primroses all

English lanes are yellow?

Little barefoot maiden,

Selling violets blue,
Hast thou ever pictured

Where the sweetlings grew?

Oh, the warm wild woodland ways,

Deep in dewy grasses,

Where the wind-blown shadow strays,

Scented as it passes!

Peddler breathing deeply,

Toiling into town,

With the dusty highway

You are dusky brown;
Hast thou seen by daisied leas,
And by rivers flowing,
Lilac-ringlets which the breeze
Loosens lightly blowing?

Out of yonder wagon

Pleasant hay-scents float,

He who drives it carries

A daisy in his coat:

Spring Song in the City

Oh, the English meadows, fair
Far beyond all praises!
Freckled orchids everywhere

Mid the snow of daisies!

Now in busy silence

Broods the nightingale,

Choosing his love's dwelling

In a dimpled dale;

Round the leafy bower they raise

Rose-trees wild are springing; Underneath, through the green haze, Bounds the brooklet singing.

And his love is silent

As a bird can be,

For the red buds only

Fill the red rose-tree;

Just as buds and blossoms blow

He'll begin his tune,

When all is green and roses glow
Underneath the moon.

Nowhere in the valleys

Will the wind be still,
Everything is waving,
Wagging at his will:

Blows the milkmaid's kirtle clean
With her hand pressed on it;
Lightly o'er the hedge so green
Blows the plowboy's bonnet.

Oh, to be a-roaming
In an English dell!
Every nook is wealthy,

All the world looks well,
Tinted soft the Heavens glow,
Over Earth and Ocean,

Waters flow, breezes blow,
All is light and motion!

1673

Robert Buchanan [1841-1901]

IN CITY STREETS

YONDER in the heather there's a bed for sleeping,
Drink for one athirst, ripe blackberries to eat;
Yonder in the sun the merry hares go leaping,
And the pool is clear for travel-wearied feet.

Sorely throb my feet, a-tramping London highways,
(Ah! the springy moss upon a northern moor!)
Through the endless streets, the gloomy squares and by-

.ways,

Homeless in the City, poor among the poor!

London streets are gold-ah, give me leaves a-glinting
'Midst gray dykes and hedges in the autumn sun!
London water's wine, poured out for all unstinting-
God! For the little brooks that tumble as they run!

Oh, my heart is fain to hear the soft wind blowing,
Soughing through the fir-tops up on northern fells!
Oh, my eye's an ache to see the brown burns flowing
Through the peaty soil and tinkling heather-bells.
Ada Smith [18 -

THE VAGABOND

(To an Air of Schubert)

GIVE to me the life I love,
Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly heaven above

And the byway nigh me.
Bed in the bush with stars to see,

Bread I dip in the river---
There's the life for a man like me,
There's the life for ever.

Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o'er me;
Give the face of earth around
And the road before me.

[blocks in formation]

IN the highlands, in the country places,

Where the old plain men have rosy faces, I

And the young fair maidens

Quiet eyes;

Where essential silence cheers and blesse

And for ever in the hill-recesses

Her more lovely music

Broods and dies.

O to mount again where erst I haunted;
Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted,
And the low green meadows

Bright with sward;

And when even dies, the million-tinted,

And the night has come, and planets glinted,
Lo, the valley hollow

Lamp-bestarred!

O to dream, O to awake and wander

There, and with delight to take and render,
Through the trance of silence,

Quiet breath!

Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses,
Only the mightier movement sounds and passes;
Only winds and rivers,

Life and Death.

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894]

THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS

WEST wind, blow from your prairie nest,

Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.
The sail is idle, the sailor too;

O wind of the west, we wait for you!
Blow, blow!

I have wooed you so,

But never a favor you bestow.

You rock your cradle the hills between,
But scorn to notice my white lateen.

I stow the sail and unship the mast:
I wooed you long, but my wooing's past;

My paddle will lull you into rest:

O drowsy wind of the drowsy west,
Sleep, sleep!

By your mountains steep,

Or down where the prairie grasses sweep,
Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,
For soft is the song my paddle sings.

Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!
The reckless waves you must plunge into..

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