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The poet's lovely faith creates The beauty he believes; The light which on his footsteps waits, He from himself receives.

His lot may be a weary lot; His thrall a heavy thrall; And cares and griefs the crowd know not, His heart may know them all:

But still he hath a mighty dower, The loveliness that throws Over the common thought and hour The beauty of the rose.

is full of strange contrasts. The wheel of life whirls round, and leaves us scarcely time to know where we are before we find ourselves in a totally different position. The material is always much the same,—pride, vanity, deceit, and selfishness; but it is worked up into very different shapes. A few weeks ago, Walter Maynard was pensively dreaming away existence to the