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It may a moment's joy impart,

To know that this, thy favorite tree, Is to my desolated heart

Almost as dear as thou could'st be.

My Florence! soon - the thought is sweet? The turf that wraps thee I shall press; Again, my Florence! we shall meet,

In bliss or in forgetfulness.

With thee, in Death's oblivion laid,
I will not have the cypress gloom
To throw its sickly, sullen shade,
Over the stillness of my tomb:
And there the 'scutcheon shall not shine,
And there the banner shall not wave;
The treasures of the glittering mine

Would ill become a lover's grave:
But when from this abode of strife
My liberated shade shall roam,
Thy myrtle, that has cheered my life,
Shall decorate my narrow home:
And it shall bloom in beauty there,
Like Florence in her early day;
Or, nipped by cold December's air,

Wither — like Hope and thee - away.

WILL THE WIZARD.

BY JOHN NEAL.

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SOMEWHERE about two hundred and fifty years ago, a boy, with plentiful brown hair, a saucy though girlish mouth, very red lips, and large clear hazel eyes, appeared lounging over a sort of handbarrow, at the door of a small shop in a little one-story village of England. He wore no hat - he was barefooted and his bosom was all open. It was market-day, and the principal street was a crowded thoroughfare. The shop stood end to the street, with a high pointed roof, one door, a large window below and a small one above. Though built of brick and mortar, there was a framework outside a sort of skeleton as though somebody had put it together in a hurry, as people do shoes, and forgot to turn it or left the staging up. Fashions have altered since. People put the best leg

foremost now - their best furniture outside. Our very women understand this; and as for our men what are they, but women turned inside out?

At the shop-window, half leaning out, half lying, appeared a middle-aged man, with a red worsted night

cap, set awry over one ear, his shirt-sleeves rolled up above the elbows, and a leather apron, pulled jauntily and coquettishly aside, so as to reveal a new suit of underclothes and a belt of protuberant linen, pushing out over the waistband, like a wreath of snow. He was evidently a man of consideration thereabouts -a good-natured, portly personage a man of substance, and acquainted with everybody. About the door, lay piles of sheepskins, and great rools of cloth, "in the gray" and in the window, were heaps of wool, the whitest and cleanest you ever saw.

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The busy multitude swept by, hour after hourand the boy followed them with his eyes, but he saw them not: gibe after gibe was interchanged with his father salutation after salutation- but he heard them not. He was like one asleep, under the orange trees, that grew by the wayside through which, the rest of the crowd were pouring, as with the tread of trampling nations. It was a great solitude about him—a solitude, like that of the mountain-top or the sea-shore. He was afar off, worshipping underneath a strange sky, in the heart of a rocky wilderness

Where, since there walked the Everlasting God,
No living foot hath been.

His fellow-creatures were like shadows to him; their voices, a doubtful echo- a distant and perpetual murmur, like the uninterrupted song of the sea-shell. To him, they were creatures of another world

creatures of earth. Nevertheless, he loved themand pitied them; for his young heart was already overflowing with human sympathies-aching with generous and fiery hope. There was a settled expression of sweet seriousness about his mouth — but, occasionally a smile would appear, playing for a moment there, like sunshine it would pass away, too, like sunshine and there would be left nothing but the imperturbable serenity- the more than mortal gravity of a superior nature. Alike fitted for companionship with the lowliest and the loftiest, he had no language for either. The Future was in travail — and there were types and shadows marshalling themselves before him, and sceptres and crowns tumbling, and rolling, and glittering about his path. His youthful spirit was undergoing a transfiguration. A something strange - awful unintelligible to himself, was beginning to stir within the great deep of his heart. The foundations thereof were agitatedflashes of fire passed before him and thunders uttered their voices.

The sun rolled up higher and higher, and the sunshine streamed hotter and hotter upon the boy's uncovered head, and played with his glittering hair, until it radiated and sparkled about his transparent temples and haughty forehead, as with the splendors of poetry. And his wide-open eyes were illuminated to their very depths, as with inward fire- and appeared listening, as to unearthly music; and his voluptuous mouth was touched with unspeakable fervor.

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And the multitude swept by him forever and ever; and all the wonders of earth went over his young heart, like the shadows of the empyrean over the fathomless tranquillity of a vast untroubled sea. And there were strange whisperings about him, and yet stranger music — audible influences ing of birds among apple-blossoms of the multitudinous ocean- the of the stars the rattling of the spring-brooks over pebbles and among the roots of old trees, and a ringing, like the voices of children at play by the seashore.

the steady roar perpetual chiming

What, Will! Will, I say! why, what's the boy dreamin' about, now? Wake up, Will! wake up! Thou 'lt never be a man, boy, an' thou spendest thy

days half asleep i' the sunshine, so!

Father! dear father

desire to be a man-boy.

an' it please ye, I've

no

Ah, Willy, Willy!-an' thee do n't alter afore thy beard blossoms, thou 'lt not live out half thy days. An' I live out all my nights, father, I do n't care for the days.

Hoity toity. -this comes o' droppin' asleep, like the flowers in the sunshine-playing with the tassel of his night-cap, as he spoke it was like a full-blown thistle-top.

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An' it please ye, father, flowers do n't drop asleep in the sunshine at the worst, they but dream a little, as I do: but I was n't asleep, father.

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