Imatges de pÓgina

With all our names ! How large the letters

grow ! This moss about the roots is like a pillow : Pleasantly sounds the plashing of the lake. Now, children, gather wood to boil the kettle; Who would have pleasure must have trouble

too; “He that would be a fish must not fear water!” I know a fountain pure, and sweet, and cold; Around its brink, they say the fairies dance, Thence I will draw the water. From this day We'll give it a new name-Luise's Spring!'


BIRD of the land! what dost thou here?

Lone wanderer o'er a trackless bound,
With nought but frowning skies above,

And wild unfathomed seas around.
Amid the shrouds, with panting breast

And drooping head, I see thee stand;
While pleased the hardy sailor climbs,

To clasp thee in his roughened hand.
Say, didst thou follow, league on league,

O'er pointed mast, thine only guide,
When but a fleeting speck it seemed

On the broad bosom of the tide ?

Amid Newfoundland's misty bank,
Hadst thou a nest of nurslings fair?

a Or com’st thou from New England's vales?

Speak, speak! what tidings dost thou bear? What news from native land and home,

Light carrier o'er the threatening tide; Hast thou no folded scroll of love,

Pressed closely to thy panting side? A bird of genius art thou? say!

With impulse high thy spirit stirr'd, Some region unexplored to gain,

And soar above the common herd? Burns in thy breast some kindling spark,

Like that which fired the glowing mind Of the adventurous Genoese,

An undiscovered world to find ? Whate'er thou art, how sad thy fate,

With wasted strength the goal to spy,
Cling feebly to the flapping sail,

And at a stranger's feet to die!
For thee the widowed mate shall gaze

From leafy chamber curtained fair,
And wailing lays at evening's close,

Lament thy loss in deep despair. E’en thus o'er life's unresting tide,

Chill'd by the billows' beating spray, Some adventitious prize to gain,

Ambition's votaries urge their way!

Some eyrie on the Alpine cliff,
Some proud Mount Blanc they fain would

Snatch wreaths of laurel steep'd in gore,

Or win from fame a strain sublime.

They lose of home the heartfelt joys,

The charm of seasons as they roll, And stake amid their blinding course

The priceless birthright of the soul. Years fleet, and still they struggle on,

Their dim eye rolls with fading fire, Perchance the long-sought treasure grasp,

And in the victory expire.


Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush and gently smile,

And go at last.
What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good night?

'Twas pity nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,

And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we

May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne'er so brave; And after they have shown their pride, Like you, awhile they glide

İnto the grave.


R. Ilirholl. The songs of nature, holiest, best are they!

The sad winds sighing thro’ the leafy trees, The lone lake's murmurs to the mountain

breeze; The streams' soft whispers, as they fondly stray

Through dingles wild, and over flowery lea,

Are sweetly holy; but the purest hymn, A melody like some old prophet layIs thine poured forth from hedge and thicket dim

Linnet-wild linnet! The poor, the scorned and lowly, forth may go Into the woods and dells where leaves are

green And 'mong the breathing forest flowers may


And hear thy music wandering to and fro,

Likesunshine glancing o'er the summer scene. Thou, poor man's songster-neither wealth

nor power! Can match the sweetness thou around dost


Oh, bless thee for the joy of many an hour!

Linnet-wild linnet! In sombre forest, gray and melancholy,

Yet sweet withal, and full of love and peace, And 'mid the furze, wrapped in a golden

fleece Of blossoms, and in hedge-rows green and lowly,

On thymy banks, where wild-bees never cease Their murmur-song, thou hast thy home of

love; Like some lone hermit far from sin and folly, 'Tis thine through forest fragrances to rove,

Linnet-wild linnet! Some humble heart is sore and sick with grief, And straight thou comest with thy gentle

song, To wile the sufferer from his hate or wrong, By bringing nature's love to his relief. Thou charmest by the sick child's window

long, Till racking pain itself be wooed to sleep; And when away have vanished flower and leaf Thy lonely wailing voice for them doth weep,

Linnet-wild linnet!

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