VIRTUE.-George Herbert. SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, Thy music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives; But, though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. TO A SKYLARK. -Wordsworth. ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! To the last point of vision and beyond, Mount, daring warbler! — that love-prompted strain ("Twixt thee and thine a never failing bond) Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain; Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing All independent of the leafy spring. Leave to the nightingale her shady wood,- e; Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine; Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam; True to the kindred points of heaven and home! TO THE BBAMBLE-FLOWER. Elliott. THY fruit full well the schoolboy knows, So put forth thy small, white rose; Though woodbines flaunt, and roses glow, For dull the eye, the heart is dull, That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful, Thy tender blossoms are! How delicate thy gauzy frill! How rich thy branchy stem! How soft thy voice, when woods are still, A sweet air lifts the little bough, The violet by the mossed gray stone But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring, The fresh, green days of life's fair spring, Scorned bramble of the brake! once more To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, LINES WRITTEN IN A HIGHLAND GLEN.- Wilson. To whom belongs this valley fair, Silent as infant at the breast The heavens appear to love this vale ; By that blue arch, this beauteous earth, O, that this lovely vale were mine! There would unto my soul be given, And thoughts would come of mystic mood, And did I ask to whom belonged This vale? I feel that I have wronged Nature's most gracious soul! She spreads her glories o'er the earth, Yea, long as Nature's humblest child ; Earth's fairest scenes are all his own; Is built amid the skies! THE EVENING RAINBOW. — Southey. MILD arch of promise! on the evening sky Such is the smile that piety bestows On the good man's pale cheek, when he in peace, Departing gently from a world of woes, Anticipates the realm where sorrows cease. BOOK OF THE WORLD. Drummond. Or this fair volume which we "World" do name, If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care We clear might read the art and wisdom rare, Find out his power, which wildest powers doth tame, His justice, His providence, extending everywhere,- Well pleased with colored vellum, leaves of gold, THE SKYLARK. — Hogg. BIRD of the wilderness, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Blest is thy dwelling-place, O, to abide in the desert with thee! |