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Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat; Coat as ancient as the form 't was folding; Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat; Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding;

There he sat !

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"In the cottage yonder I was born;

Long my happy home, that humble dwelling;

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat. There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn;

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there,

No one sympathizing, no one heeding, None to love him for his thin gray hair, And the furrows all so mutely pleading Age and care:

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there.

It was summer, and we went to school,

Dapper country lads and little maidens; Taught the motto of the " Dunce's Stool,' Its grave import still my fancy ladens, "Here's a fool!"

It was summer, and we went to school.

When the stranger seemed to mark our play,
Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted,
I remember well, too well, that day!

Oftentimes the tears unbidden started,
Would not stay

When the stranger seemed to mark our play.

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell,

O, to me her name was always Heaven! She besought him all his grief to tell, (I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) Isabel ! One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old;

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told." Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow, Down it rolled !

"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old.

"I have tottered here to look once more On the pleasant scene where I delighted In the careless, happy days of yore,

Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core:

I have tottered here to look once more.

"All the picture now to me how dear! E'en this gray old rock where I am seated,

Is a jewel worth my journey here;

Ah that such a scene must be completed
With a tear!

All the picture now to me how dear!

"Old stone school-house! it is still the same;
There's the very step I so oft mounted;
There's the window creaking in its frame,
And the notches that I cut and counted

There the spring with limpid nectar swelling;
Ah, forlorn!

In the cottage yonder I was born.
"Those two gateway sycamores you see
Then were planted just so far asunder
That long well-pole from the path to free,
And the wagon to pass safely under;
Ninety-three!

Those two gateway sycamores you see.

"There's the orchard where we used to climb When my mates and I were boys together, Thinking nothing of the flight of time,

Fearing naught but work and rainy weather; Past its prime!

There's the orchard where we used to climb.

"There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails, Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing,

Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails
In the crops of buckwheat we were raising;
Traps and trails!

There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails.

"There's the mill that ground our yellow grain; Pond and river still serenely flowing;

Cot there nestling in the shaded lane,
Where the lily of my heart was blowing,
Mary Jane!

There's the mill that ground our yellow grain.

"There's the gate on which I used to swing, Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable;

But alas! no more the morn shall bring

That dear group around my father's table;
Taken wing!

There's the gate on which I used to swing.

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Stay wherever you will,

By the mount or under the hill,
Or down by the little river:
Stay as long as you please,
Give me only a bud from the trees,
Or a blade of grass in morning dew,
Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue,
I could look on it forever.

Wheel, wheel through the sunshine,
Wheel, wheel through the shadow;
There must be odors round the pine,
There must be balm of breathing kine,
Somewhere down in the meadow.
Must I choose? Then anchor me there
Beyond the beckoning poplars, where
The larch is snooding her flowery hair
With wreaths of morning shadow.

Among the thickest hazels of the brake
Perchance some nightingale doth shake
His feathers, and the air is full of song ;
In those old days when I was young and strong,
He used to sing on yonder garden tree,
Beside the nursery.

Ah, I remember how I loved to wake,

And find him singing on the self-same bough (I know it even now)

Where, since the flit of bat,

In ceaseless voice he sat,

Trying the spring night over, like a tune,
Beneath the vernal moon;

And while I listed long,
Day rose, and still he sang,
And all his stanchless song,
As something falling unaware,

Fell out of the tall trees he sang among,
Fell ringing down the ringing morn, and rang, -
Rang like a golden jewel down a golden stair.

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I am warm with the summers that are not yet,
And like one who dreams and dozes

Softly afloat on a sunny sca,
Two worlds are whispering over me,
And there blows a wind of roses

From the backward shore to the shore before,
From the shore before to the backward shore,
And like two clouds that meet and pour
Each through each, till core in core

A single self reposes,

The nevermore with the evermore

Above me mingles and closes;

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As a child that holds by his mother,
While his mother speaks his praises,
Holds with eager hands,
And ruddy and silent stands
In the ruddy and silent daisies,
And hears her bless her boy,
And lifts a wondering joy,
So I'll not seek nor sue her,

But I'll leave my glory to woo her,
And I'll stand like a child beside,
And from behind the purple pride
I'll lift my eyes unto her,

And I shall not be denied.

And you will love her, brother dear,

And perhaps next year you 'll bring me here

All through the balmy April tide,

And she will trip like spring by my side,

And be all the birds to my ear.

And here all three we'll sit in the sun,
And see the Aprils one by one,
Primrosed Aprils on and on,
Till the floating prospect closes
In golden glimmers that rise and rise,
And perhaps are gleams of Paradise,
And perhaps too far for mortal eyes,

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Of all the glad new-year, mother, the maddest, The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its merriest day;

wavy bowers,

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet

be Queen o' the May.

There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine;

There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline;

cuckoo-flowers;

And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray;

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the they say:

meadow-grass,

So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to And the happy stars above them seem to brighten be Queen o' the May.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,

If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break;

as they pass;

There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day;

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

But I must gather knots of flowers and buds, All the valley, mother, 'll be fresh and green and

and garlands gay;

still,

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the be Queen o' the May. hill,

And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'll merrily | Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave

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You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,

And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.

I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pass,

To-night I saw the sun set, he set and left With your feet above my head in the long and

behind

The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind;

And the new-year's coming up, mother; but I shall never see

The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.

pleasant grass.

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll for give me now;

You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow;

Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild ;

Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had You should not fret for me, mother you have

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If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;

Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;

Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say,

There's not a flower on all the hills, the frost And be often, often with you when you think

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And the swallow 'll come back again with sum- She 'll find my garden tools upon the granary mer o'er the wave,

floor.

ering grave.

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mould. Let her take 'em they are hers; I shall never garden more.

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