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Were grove and leafy grot. The noblest ever planned, With quaint device and rare, By man, can ill compare With these from God's own hand. Pilgrim with way-worn feet, Who, treading life's dull round, No true repose hast found, Come to this green retreat. For bird, and flower, and tree, Green fields, and woodland wild, Shall bear, with voices mild, Sweet messages to thee. JUNE. Throw open wide your golden gates, O poet-landed month of June, And waft me, on your spicy breath, The melody of birds in tune. O fairest palace of the three, Wherein Queen Summer holdeth sway, I gaze upon your leafy courts From out the vestibule of May. I fain would tread your garden walks, Or in your shady bowers recline; Then open wide your golden gates, And make them mine, and make them mine. LITTLE CHARLIE. A VIOLET grew by the river-side, And gladdened all hearts with its bloom; While over the fields, on the scented air, It breathed a rich perfume. But the clouds grew dark in the angry sky, And its portals were opened wide; And the heavy rain beat down the flower That grew by the river-side. Not far away in a pleasant home, There lived a little boy, Whose cheerful face and childish grace Filled every heart with joy. He wandered one day to the river's verge, With no one near to save; And the heart that we loved with a boundless love Was stilled in the restless wave. The sky grew dark to our tearful eyes, And we bade farewell to joy; For our hearts were bound by a sorrowful tie To the grave of the little boy. The birds still sing in the leafy tree That shadows the open door; We heed them not, for we think of the voice That we shall hear no more. We think of him at eventide, And gaze on his vacant chair With a longing heart that will scarce believe That Charlie is not there. We seem to hear his ringing laugh, And his bounding step at the door; But, alas! there comes the sorrowful thought, We shall never hear them more! We shall walk sometimes to his little grave, In the pleasant summer hours; We will speak his name in a softened voice
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