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Landscape and Song   By:

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First Page:

[Illustration: LANDSCAPE AND SONG.]

[Handwritten note:

To Annette from Uncle Tom.

Xmas 1887 Toronto, Canada.]

[Illustration: LANDSCAPE AND SONG.]


Landscape and Song.

Selected and Arranged by E. Nesbit.


LONDON: HENRY J. DRANE & CO. Paternoster Row E.C.

New York: E.P. Dutton & Co.



What dreams the flower cups enfold Within their fragrant leaves, Of meadow ways grown fair with spring, Soft mists that April weaves; And cottage gardens where the scent Of flowers is with the wood smoke blent.

The ceaseless ripple of the brook, Babbling against the broken arch, The little firwood's tasselled spires, The cloud of verdure on the larch; The gold green glimmer of the woods, Where tender twilight always broods.

C. Brooke.


There is dew for the flow'ret, And honey for the bee, And bowers for the wild bird, And love for you and me.

There are tears for the many, And pleasures for the few, But let the world pass on, dear, There's love for me and you.





O late and sweet, too sweet, too late! What nightingale will sing to thee? The empty nest, the shivering tree, The dead leaves by the garden gate, And cawing crows for thee will wait, O sweet and late!

Where wert thou when the soft June nights Were faint with perfume, glad with song? Where wert thou when the days were long And steeped in Summer's young delights? What hopest thou now but checks and slights, Brief days, lone nights?

Stay, there's a gleam of Winter wheat Far on the hill; down in the woods A very heaven of stillness broods; And through the mellow sun's worn heat, Lo! tender pulses round thee beat, O late and sweet!


There's beauty all around our paths, if but our watchful eyes Can trace it midst familiar things and through their lowly guise; We may find it when a hedgerow showers its blossoms o'er our way, Or a cottage window sparkles forth in the last red light of day.

F. Hemans.




Half covered with last year's leaves, She peeped from her russet bed;

The great bare branches of the trees Were tossed and swayed overhead;

The hedge looked barren and prickly, Without the sign of a leaf; Over the flower there bowed a heart Grown cold with the snows of grief.

The violet's fragile petals Enfolded a heart of gold, And a deeper wealth of perfume, Than the tiny cup could hold; So the great wind roaring above Sent a tiny zephyr down, To drift aside the sheltering bloom, And bereave her of her crown.

It stole the familiar scent, To give to the burdened heart With only a cold north wind In the world to take its part; The flower died in the bleak March air, And the heart went on its way; The violet's life was blooming there, And melting the snows away.

Caris Brooke.




Yet nature holds a gracious hand, Her ancient ways pursuing; And spreads the charms we loved of old, To aid the heart's renewing.

Here her long crests of fring├Ęd crag Allure the skyward swallows; Here the still dove's low love note floats Above her leafy hollows.

Here its calm strength her hillside rears, From heaving slopes of clover; Here still the pewit pipes and flits Within his furzy cover.

Here hums the wild bee in the thyme, Here glows the royal heather; And youth comes back upon the breeze, And youth's unclouded weather.

F.T. Palgrave.

[Illustration: Here hums the wild bee in the thyme]




Dear, do not die! Of cypresses and grassy graves sing I I hang with wreaths of song death's grief grown cross, And weep, to music, for Life's infinite loss, And make the sweetest verse of bitterest woe, I know the way because I love you so; But I have written griefs that I have known In other's heart's blood, never in my own... Continue reading book >>

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