So let it be a light they shed
O'er each old fount and grove;
A memory of the gentle dead,
A spell of lingering love:
Murmuring the names of mighty men,
They bid our streams roll on,
And link high thoughts to every glen
Where valiant deeds were done.
Teach them your children round the hearth,
When evening-fires burn clear,
And in the fields of harvest mirth,
And on the hills of deer!
So shall each unforgotten word,
When far those loved ones roam,
Call back the hearts that once it stirred,
To childhood's holy home.
The green woods of their native land
Shall whisper in the strain,
The voices of their household band
Shall sweetly speak again:
The heathery heights in vision rise
Where like the stag they roved―
Sing to your sons those melodies,
The songs your fathers loved.
FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.
COUNTRY life is sweet!
In moderate cold and heat,
To walk in the air how pleasant and fair!
In every field of wheat,
The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers,
And every meadow's brow;
So that I say, no courtier may
Compare with them who clothe in gray
And follow the useful plough.
They rise with the morning lark,
And labor till almost dark,
Then, folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep
While every pleasant park
Next morning is ringing with birds that are singing
On each green, tender bough.
With what content and merriment
Their days are spent, whose minds are bent
To follow the useful plough.
Y time, O ye Muses, was happily spent,
When Phoebe went with me wherever I
With such a companion to tend a few sheep,
To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep:
I was so good-humored, so cheerful and gay,
My heart was as light as a feather all day;
But now I so cross and so peevish am grown,
So strangely uneasy, as never was known.
My fair one is gone and my joys are all drowned,
And my heart-I am sure it weighs more than
pound.
The fountain that wont to run sweetly along,
And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among;
Thou knowest, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there,
'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear:
But now she is absent, I walk by its side,
And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide;
Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain?
Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me corn.
plain.
My lambkins around me would oftentimes play,
And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they;
How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time,
When spring, love and beauty were all in their
But now, in their frolics when by me they pass,
I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass;
Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad,
To see you so merry while I am so sad.
My dog I was ever well pleasèd to see
Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me:
And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said,
"Come hither, poor fellow," and patted his head.
But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look
Cry "Sirrah!" and give him a blow with my crook:
And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray
Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's away?
When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen
How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green!
What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade,
The corn fields and hedges, and everything made!
But now she has left me, though all are still there,
They none of them now so delightful appear :
'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes,
Made so many beautiful prospects arise.
Sweet music went with us both all the wood through,
The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too;
Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat,
And chirp! went the grasshopper under our feet.
But now she is absent, though still they sing on,
The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone:
Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my Her voice in the concert, as now I have found,
Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest!
But now she is gone, and has left me behind,
What a marvelous change on a sudden I find!
When things were as fine as could possibly be,
I thought 'twas the spring: but alas! it was she.
Gave everything else its agreeable sound.
Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does out of its sweetness the blossom beguile?
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?
Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you drest,
And made yourselves fine for-a place in her breast:
You put on your colors to pleasure her eye,
To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die.
Will no pitying power, that hears me complain,
Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain?
To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove;
But what swain is so silly to live without love!
No, Deity, bid the dear nymph to return,
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair;
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair.
JOHN BYROM.
ERE from the brow of the hill I look,
Through a lattice of boughs and leaves,
On the old gray mill with its gambrel roof,
And the moss on its rotting eaves.
I hear the clatter that jars its walls,
And the rushing water's sound,
And I see the black floats rise and fall
As the wheel goes slowly round.
I rode there often when I was young,
With my grist on the horse before,
And talked with Nelly, the miller's girl,
As I waited my turn at the door.
And while she tossed her ringlets brown,
And flirted and chatted so free,
The wheel might stop, or the wheel might go,
It was all the same to me.
'Tis twenty years since last I stood
On the spot where I stand to-day,
And Nelly is wed, and the miller is dead,
And the mill and I are gray.
But both, till we fall into ruin and wreck,
To the fortune of toil are bound;
And the man goes and the stream flows,
And the wheel moves slowly round.
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.
UST in the dubious point, where with the pool
Is mixed the trembling stream, or where it boils
Around the stone, or from the hollowed bank
Reverted plays in undulating flow,
There throw, nice-judging, the delusive fly;
And, as you lead it round in artful curve,
With eye attentive mark the springing game.
Straight as above the surface of the flood
They wanton rise, or urged by hunger leap,
Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook;
Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank,
And to the shelving shore slow dragging some,
With various hand proportioned to their force.
If yet too young, and easily deceived,
A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod,
Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space
He has enjoyed the vital light of heaven,
Soft disengage, and back into the stream
The speckled infant throw. But should you lure
From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots
Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook,
Behooves you then to ply your finest art.
Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly;
And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft
The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear.
At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun
Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death,
With sullen plunge. At once he darts along,
Deep-struck, and runs out all the lengthened line;
Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed,
The caverned bank, his old secure abode;
And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool,
Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand,
That feels him still, yet to his furious course
Gives way, you, now retiring, following now
Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage;
Till, floating broad upon his breathless side,
And to his fate abandoned, to the shore
You gayly drag your unresisting prize.
TELL you, Kate, that Lovejoy cow
Is worth her weight in gold;
She gives a good eight quarts o' milk,
And isn't yet five years old.
"I see young White a-comin' now;
He wants her, I know that.
Be careful, girl, you're spillin' it!
An' save some for the cat.
"Good evenin', Richard, step right in ;" "I guess I couldn't, sir,
I've just come down"-" I know it, Dick, You've took a shine to her.
"She's kind an' gentle as a lamb,
Jest where I go she follows; And though it's cheap I'll let her go; She's your'n for thirty dollars.
"You'll know her clear across the farm,
By them two milk-white stars;
You needn't drive her home at night,
But jest le' down the bars.
"Then, when you've owned her, say a month, And learnt her, as it were,
I'll bet-why, what's the matter, Dick?" "Taint her I want-it's-her!"
UT look! o'er the fall see the angler stand,
Swinging his rod with skilful hand;
The fly at the end of his gossamer line
Swims through the sun like a summer moth,
Till, dropt with a careful precision fine,
It touches the pool beyond the froth.
A-sudden, the speckled hawk of the brook
Darts from his covert and seizes the hook.
Swift spins the reel; with easy slip
The line pays out, and the rod, like a whip,
Lithe and arrowy, tapering, slim,
Is bent to a bow o'er the brooklet's brim,
Till the trout leaps up in the sun, and flings
The spray from the flash of his finny wings;
Then falls on his side, and, drunken with fright,
Is towed to the shore like a staggering barge,
Till beached at last on the sandy marge,
Where he dies with the hues of the morning light,
While his sides with a cluster of stars are bright.
The angler in the basket lays
His speckled prize, and goes his ways.
THOMAS BUCHANAN REED.
MILLIONAIRE AND BAREFOOT BOY.
IS evening, and the round red sun sinks slowly in the West,
The flowers fold their petals up, the birds fly to their nest,
The crickets chirrup in the grass, the bats flit to and fro,
And tinkle-tankle up the lane the lowing cattle go; And the rich man from his carriage looks out on them as they come
On them and on the barefoot boy that drives the cattle home.
"I wish," the boy says to himself "I wish that I were he
And yet, upon maturer thought, I do not-no, siree!
Not for all the gold his coffers hold would I be that duffer there,
With a liver pad and a gouty toe, and scarce a single hair;
To have a wife with a Roman nose, and fear lest a panic come
Far better be the barefoot boy that drives the cattle home."
And the rich man murmurs to himself: "Would } give all my peli
To change my lot with yonder boy? Not if I know myself.
Over the grass that's full of ants, and chill with dew to go,
With a stone bruise upon either heel and a splinter in my toe!
Oh, I'd rather sail my yacht a year across the ocean's foam
Than be one day the barefoot boy that drives the cattle home." G. T. LANIGAN.
IKE some vision olden
Of far other time,
When the age was golden,
In the young world's prime,
Is thy soft pipe ringing,
O lonely shepherd boy:
What song art thou singing,
In thy youth and joy?
Or art thou complaining
Of thy lonely lot,
And thine own disdaining,
Dost ask what hast thou not?
Of the future dreaming,
Weary of the past,
For the present scneming-
All but what thou hast ?
No, thou art delighting
In tny summer home; Where the flowers inviting Tempt the bee to roam; Where the cowslip, bending With its golden bells, Of each glad hour's ending With a sweet chime tells
All wild creatures love him When he is alone;
Every bird above him
Sings its softest tone. Thankful to high Heaven, Humble in thy joy, Much to thee is given, Lowly shepherd boy.
HE farmer came in from the field one day;
His languid step and his weary way,
His bended brow, his sinewy hand,
All showed his work for the good of the land;
For he sows,
And he hoes,
And he mows,
All for the good of the land.
And it snows,
Till winter goes,
He rests from the work of the land.
But the willing wife, till life's closing day,
Is the children's guide, the husband's stay;
From day to day she has done her best,
Until death alone can give he rest,
For after the test,
Comes the rest,
With the blest,
In the farmer's heavenly home.
HE stood breast high amid the corn
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.
On her cheek an autumn flush
Deeply ripened ;—such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.
Round her eyes her tresses fell-
Which were blackest none could tell;
But long lashes veiled a light
That had else been all too bright.
And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim ;—
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.
Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean;
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.
OR rural sights alone, but rural sounds,
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore
The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading
wood,
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike
The dash of ocean on his winding shore,
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind,
Unnumbered branches waving in the blast,
And all their leaves fast fluttering all at once.
Nor less composure waits upon the roar
Of distant floods, or on the softer voice
Of neighboring fountain, or of rills that slip
Through the cleft rock, and chiming as they fall
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length
In matted grass, that with a livelier green
Betrays the secret of their silent course.
Nature inanimate displays sweet sounds,
But animated nature sweeter still,
To soothe and satisfy the human ear.
Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one
The livelong night; nor these alone whose notes
Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain,
But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime
In still-repeated circles, screaming loud,
The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl
That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.
Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh,
Yet heard in scenes where peace forever reigns,
And only there, please highly for their sake.
WILLIAM COWFER.
HEALTH THE HANDMAID OF HAPPINESS.
H! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven,
When drooping health and spirits go amiss?
How tasteless then whatever can be given?
Health is the vital principle of bliss,
And exercise of health.
OME to the river's reedy shore,
My maiden, while the skies,
With blushes fit to grace thy cheek,
Wait for the sun's uprise :
There, dancing on the rippling wave,
My boat expectant lies,
And jealous flowers, as thou goest by,
Unclose their dewy eyes.
As gently down the stream we glide, The lilies all unfold
Their leaves, less rosy white than thou,
And virgin hearts of gold;
The gay birds on the meadow elm
Salute thee blithe and bold,
While I behold thee ply the oar,
And glow with love untold.
HAPPY THE MAN WHOSE WISH AND CARE.
APPY the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter, fire.
Blest who can unconcernedly find
Hours, days and years slide softly away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease Together mixed; sweet recreation, And innocence, which inost does please, With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
OME to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone; The woodman's ax lies free, And the reaper's work is done.
The twilight star to heaven,
And the summer dew to flowers, And rest to us is given
By the cool, soft evening hours. Sweet is the hour of rest!
Pleasant the wind's low sigh,
And the gleaming of the west,
And the turf whereon we lie-
When the burden and the head
Of labor's task are o'er,
And kindly voices greet
The tired one at his door;
And we lift our trusting eyes,
From the hills our father's trod,
To the quiet of the skies,
To the Sabbath of our God.
Come to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman's ax lies free,
And the reaper's work is done.
Yes; tuneful is the sound
That dwells in whispering boughs;
Welcome the freshness round,
And the gale that fans our brows.
But rest more sweet and still
Than ever nightfall gave,
Our longing hearts shall fill
In the world beyond the grave.
There shall no tempest blow,
No scorching noontide heat;
There shall be no more snow,
No weary wandering feet.
Come to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman's ax lies free,
And the reaper's work is done!
FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.
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