A CITY LYRIC. 
4G7 
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And mine ear doth drink your musio, 
Song of birds or. rippling leaves, 
Or the reapers’ staves sung blithely 
’Mid the ripe brown barley sheaves. 
I go forth at will, and gather 
Flowers from gardens trim and fair; 
Or among the shady woodlands 
Cull the sweet blooms lurking there. 
Little wot you, 0 ! my brother, 
While I toil with sweat of brow, 
01 the leisure that doth wait me 
’Neath the far-off forest bough. 
Little wot you, looking upward 
At the smoke-wreaths low’ring there 
That my vision is not bounded 
By this dull and murky air;— 
That these thick close streets and alleys 
At my bidding vanish quite, 
And the meadows ope before me, 
And the green hills crowned with light. 
Do not pity me. my brother,— 
God’s d ear love to me hath given 
Comfort ’mid the strife and turmoil, 
And some blessings under heaven; 
