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BUCKFASTLEIGH ABBEY.

SWEET pastoral vale!-When hope was young,
And life looked green and bright as thou,
Ere this world's toils or cares had flung
A shade of sadness on my brow,-

A loiterer in thy sylvan bowers,
I whiled away uncounted hours,
And, by thine own sequestered Dart,
Poured forth, in song, my burning heart!

Wild river! as it lapsed along

In glory on its winding way,

Like Youth's first hopes, rejoicing, strong,
And full of Heaven's own hues as they,-
I little thought that storms would fling
Their shadows o'er so bright a thing;
Or that my course would ever be
Less calm than then it seemed to me.

I came when wintry winds were high,
And storms were brooding in the air;

Thy river rushed in fierceness by,

Thy skies were dim, thy trees were bare ;
And that lone ruin, erst that rose
An emblem of thy charmed repose,
Now, struggling with the fitful blast,
Frowned like the spectre of the Past.

A change was on my aching heart,
As dark as that I kenned in thee;
Thoughts, like thy waves, impetuous Dart,
Thronged o'er my soul tumultuously,

As gazing on that altered scene,

I turned to what we both had been ;-
Thy charms are lovelier than of yore,
When will my storms of life be o'er ?

And thou art now a fairy dream,

To stir the source of sweetest tears;

That sun-touched fane, and sparkling stream,
My beacon-lights to other years.
Oh might my toil-worn spirit close
Its weary pinions in repose,

I would not ask more perfect bliss
Than such a paradise as this!

C.

THE QUEEN OF THE MEADOW.

A Country Story.

BY MISS M. R. MITFord.

In a winding unfrequented road in the south of England, close to a low, two-arched bridge, thrown across a stream of more beauty than consequence, stood the small irregular dwelling and the picturesque buildings of Hatherford mill. It was a pretty scene on a summer afternoon was that old mill, with its strong lights and shadows, its low-browed cottage covered with the clustering pyracantha, and the clear brook, which, after dashing, and foaming, and brawling, and playing off all the airs of a mountain river whilst pent up in the mill stream, was no sooner let loose than it subsided into its natural peaceful character, and crept quietly along the valley, meandering through the green woody meadows, as tranquil a trout stream as ever Isaac Walton angled in. Many a passenger has stayed his step to admire the old buildings of Hatherford mill, backed by its dark orchard, especially when the accom

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