Fresh in my mossy bed,— The frequent pity of the rock falls here- Sometime, a melancholy bird Warble at my grave head. Read this small tablet o'er, That holds my epitaph upon its cheek of pearl'Here lies a simple girl, Who died, Like a pale flower nipt in its sweet spring tide, Ere it had bloomed.' No more! A REGRET FOR CHILDHOOD. Anon. Ir is not that our earlier Heaven Each brightest leaf That's wreathed us by the hours! Young though we be, the past may sting, The present feed its sorrow: But hope shines bright on every thing That waits us with the morrow. The dimmest shades Some rosy beam can borrow. It is not that our later years To lost ones now Makes joys too bright, unholy. And ever fled the Iris bow That smiled when clouds were o'er us; If storms should burst, uncheered we go, A drearier waste before usAnd with the toys Of childish joys, HERE are jewels of earth' from the wild wooded glade, Oh! who doth not love them, dear gems of the shade, They are fair as the pearl, as the amethyst bright, How rich is their darkness, how pure is their light! The breeze swept this morn by their shaded retreat, And loaded his wings with their delicate sweet. He told, as he passed me, with ecstacy swelling, Of the spoil he had found in the violet's dwelling. I sought where the hazel's light banners were streaming, And the bank of the birch tree with silver was gleaming; Where the oak his broad branches so widely was spreading, Whose mazes threading the dark-colored ivy was And there, 'neath their shadow, the flowers were sleeping, On a bank where the green moss was silently creeping; And I found that the wild bee before me was come, For beauty and sweets to the violet's home. FAITH. R. 5. Andros. A SWALLOW in the spring Came to our granary, and 'neath the eaves Essayed to build her nest, and there did bring Wet earth, and straw, and leaves. Day after day she toiled With patient art, but ere her work was crown'd, She found the ruin wrought; Yet not cast down, forth from her place she flew, And with her mate fresh earth and grasses brought And built her nest anew. But scarcely had she placed The last soft feather on its ample floor, But still her heart she kept, And toil'd again; and last night, hearing calls, I look'd, and lo! three little swallows slept Within the earth-made walls. What truth is here, O man! Hath hope been smitten in its earliest dawn? Have clouds o'ercast thy purpose, trust or plan? Have faith, and struggle on! IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. Longfellow. THE sun is bright, the air is clear, So blue yon winding river flows, All things are new-the buds, the leaves, All things rejoice in youth and love, Enjoy the spring of love and youth, |