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Only the reedy marsh that sleeps below, With its dwarf bushes, is concealed from view;

And now a struggling thorn its head doth show, Another half shakes off the smoky blue, Just where the dusty gold streams through the heavy dew.

VI.

And there the hidden river lingering dreams,

You scarce can see the banks which round it lie; That withered trunk, a tree, or shepherd seems,

Just as the light or fancy strikes the eye.

Even the very sheep, which graze hard by,
So blend their fleeces with the misty haze,

They look like clouds shook from the unsunned sky,
Ere morning o'er the eastern hills did blaze :-
The vision fades as they move on to graze.

VII.

A chequered light streams in between the leaves,

Which on the greensward twinkle in the sun; The deep-voiced thrush his speckled bosom heaves,

And like a silver stream his song doth run

Down the low vale, edgëd with fir-trees dun. A little bird now hops beside the brook,

Peaking” about like an affrighted nun: And ever as she drinks doth upward look, Twitters and drinks again, then seeks her cloistered nook.

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VIII.

What varied colors o'er the landscape play!

The very clouds seem at their ease to lean, And the whole earth to keep glad holiday.

The lowliest bush that by the waste is seen

Hath changed its dusky for a golden green,
In honor of this lovely summer morn;

The rutted roads did never seem so clean;
There is no dust upon the wayside thorn,
For every bud looks out as if but newly born.

IX.

A cottage girl trips by with side-long look,

Steadying the little basket on her head; And where a plank bridges the narrow brook

She stops to see her fair form shadowëd.

The stream reflects her cloak of russet red; Below she sees the trees and deep-blue sky,

The flowers which downward look in that clear bed, The very birds which o'er its brightness fly:She parts her loose-blown hair, then wondering passes by

X.

Ilow sweet those rural sounds float by the hill!

The grasshopper's shrill chirp rings o'er the ground, The jingling sheep-bells are but seldom still,

The clapping gate closes with hollow bound,

There's music in the church-clock's measured sound. The ring-dove's song, how breeze-like comes and goes !

Now here, now there, it seems to wander round:
The red cow's voice along the upland flows;
IIis bass the brindled bull from the far meadow lows:

XI.

Where soars that spire, our rude forefathers prayed:

Thither they came, from many a thick-leaved deli Year after year, and o'er those footpaths strayed

When summoned by the sounding Sabbath-bell,

For in those walls they deemed that God did dwell. And still they sleep within that bell's deep sound.

Yon spire doth here of no distinction tell: O’er rich and poor, marble and earthly mound, The monument of all,-it marks one common ground.

XII.

See yonder smoke, before it curls to heaven,

Mingles its blue amid the elm-trees tall; Shrinking like one who fears to be forgiven,

So on the earth again doth prostrate fall,

And ’mid the bending green each sin recall.
Now from their beds the cottage-children rise,

Roused by some early playmate's noisy bawl;
And, on the door-step standing, rub their eyes,
Stretching their little arms, and gaping at the skies.

XIII.

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The leaves drop, drop," and dot the crispëd stream

So quick, each circle wears the first away; Far out the tufted bulrush seems to dream,

And to the ripple nods its head alway;

The water-flags with one another play, Bowing to every breeze that blows between,

While purple dragon-flies their wings display: The restless swallow's arrowy flight is seen, Dimpling the sunny wave, then lost amid the green.

XIV.

All things, save man, this summer morn rejoice:

Sweet smiles the sky, so fair a world to view; Unto the earth below the flowers give voice;

Even the wayside weed of homeliest hue

Looks up erect amid the golden blue,
And thus it speaketh to the thinking mind :-

“O’erlook me not! I for a purpose grew, Though long mayest thou that purpose try to find. On us one sunshine falls! God only is not blind !”

XV.

Here might a sinner humbly kneel and pray,

With this bright sky, this lovely scene in view, And worship Him who guardeth us alway!

Who hung these lands with green, this sky with blue,

Whọ spake, and from these plains huge cities grew; Who made thee, O my Country! what thou art,

And asks but gratitude for all His due.
The Giver, God! claims but the beggar's part,
And only doth require "a humble, contrite heart."

THOMAS MILLERabridged."

XCII.-ELIZABETH'S ANGER AT LEICESTER'S

MARRIAGE.

Q

UEEN ELIZABETH was walking to and fro in a violent agitation, which she seemed to scorn to conceal,

while two or three of her most sage and confidential counselors exchanged anxious looks with each other, but delayed speaking till her wrath had abated. Before the empty chair of state in which she had been seated, and which was half pushed aside by the violence with which she had started from it, knelt Dudley, Earl of Leicester, his arms crossed, and his brows bent on the ground, still and motionless as the effigies on a sepulcher. Beside him stood the Lord Shrewsbury, then Earl Marshal of England, holding his baton of office—the earl's sword was unbuckled, and lay before him on the floor. At this moment Tressilian knocked, and was instantly admitted.

2. “Ho, sir,” said the queen, coming close up to Tressilian, and stamping on the floor with the action and manner of Henry himself; "you knew of this fair workyou are an accomplice in this deception which has been practiced on usyou have been a main cause of our doing injustice!”

3. Tressilian dropped on his knee before the queen, his good sense showing him the risk of attempting any defense at that moment of irritation. “Art dumb, sirrah!” she continued; “thou know'st of this affair-dost thou not?”

4. “Not, gracious madam, that this poor lady was Countess of Leicester."

5. “Nor shall any one know her as such,” said Elizabeth. “ Death of my life! Countess of Leicester !—I say Dame Amy Dudley—and well if she have not cause to write herself widow of the traitor Robert Dudley.”

6. "Madam," said Leicester," do with me what it may be your will to do, but work no injury on this gentleman; he hath in no way deserved it.”

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7. And will he be the better for thy intercession,” said the queen, leaving Tressilian, who slowly arose, and rushing to Leicester, who continued kneeling, -"the better for thy intercession, thou doubly false—thou doubly forsworn? -for thy intercession, whose villany hath made me ridiculous to my subjects, and odious to myself? I could tear out mine eyes for their blindness !”

8. Burleigh here ventured to interpose. “Madam,” he said, “remember that you are a queen—Queen of England -mother of your people. Give not way to this wild storm of passion."

9. Elizabeth turned round to him, while a tear actually twinkled in her proud and angry eye. “Burleigh," she said, “thou art a statesman; thou dost not, thou canst not, comprehend half the scorn, half the misery, that man has poured on me!”

10. With the utmost caution, with the deepest reverence, Burleigh took her hand at the moment he saw her heart was full, and led her aside to an oriel window apart from the others.

11. “Madam,” he said, “I am a statesman, but I am also a man-a man already grown old in your councils, who have not and cannot have a wish on earth but your glory and happiness. I pray you to be composed.”

12. “Ah, Burleigh,” said Elizabeth, “thou little knowest” -here her tears fell over her cheeks in despite of her.

13. “I do, I do know, my honored sovereign. O beware that you lead not others to guess that which they know not!”

14. “Ha!” said Elizabeth, pausing as if a new train of thought had suddenly shot across her brain. “Burleigh, thou art right-thou art right-anything but disgraceanything but a confession of weakness-anything rather than seem the cheated, slighted - 'Sdeath! to think on it is distraction!”

15. “Be but yourself, my queen,” said Burleigh ; "and soar far above a weakness which no Englishman will ever

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