This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 189? Excerpt: ... you and I Have heard the blackbird sing, Or caught by running brooks and woods The glory of the spring; It's long since you and I have trod The paths where hawthorns blow; Then, Mary! fling your work aside, And let your troubles go. The trees shall bend to welcome us, The flowers shall clasp our feet; The very bees ...
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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 189? Excerpt: ... you and I Have heard the blackbird sing, Or caught by running brooks and woods The glory of the spring; It's long since you and I have trod The paths where hawthorns blow; Then, Mary! fling your work aside, And let your troubles go. The trees shall bend to welcome us, The flowers shall clasp our feet; The very bees shall hymn our praise In murmurs soft and sweet; The winds shall swell with ready voice The chorus high and loud; And we'll forget the world, my wife! And all its busy crowd. 88 THE WORKMAN TO HIS WIFE. A thousand things await us, love--Blue skies and balmy air--Green fields, whose very sight shall make The heart forget its care. Then never sigh--be glad to-day--Throw sorrow to the wind, Nor pause till we have left our ills A summer's hour behind. BURNS. BURNS. A HUNDRED years and more have flown, Since Nature bore a wayward child--With feelings fashioned strong and wild--And taught him lessons all her own. An anxious mother, for when pain And sorrow came upon her son, Ere yet his day was three parts run, She took him to herself again. She took him to her heart, and hid The golden lyre he loved so well; But yet around the homes of men Its voice had breathed a charmed spell. And Nature, like the passing wind, Left all she could not take behind: The memories of his mirth and woe. Yes, he was hers, but they are ours--They are the flowers we cherish now, And we, with them, will desk his brow, Though they were gathered long ago. There is a star that rides in heaven--The first to come, the last to go--It meets us when our souls are riven, And thoughts are low. It hath a hope whereon to cling, That balm for mortal suffering. 90 BURKS. Thus to the toil-o'erladen one, The drooping exile far away, Come the bright words and burning thoughts Of him we celeb...
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