MINE be a cot beside the hill;

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;

A willow brook, that turns a mill,

With many a fall, shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,

Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivy'd porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing,
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church, among the trees,

Where first our marriage vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven.

THIS is the place. Stand still, my steed;
Let me review the scene,

And summon from the shadowy Past
The forms that once have been.

The Past and Present here unite
Beneath Time's flowing tide,
Like footprints hidden by a brook,
But seen on either side.

66

A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE.

Here runs the highway to the town;

There the green lane descends,

Through which I walk'd to church with thee, O gentlest of my friends!

The shadow of the linden-trees

Lay moving on the grass;

Between them and the moving boughs,

A shadow, thou didst pass.

Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares,

Of earth and folly born!"

Solemnly sang the village choir,

On that sweet Sabbath morn.

Through the closed blinds the golden sun

Pour'd in a dusty beam,

Like the celestial ladder seen

By Jacob in his dream.

And ever and anon, the wind,

Sweet-scented with the hay,

Turn'd o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves,

That on the window lay.

A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE.

Long was the good man's sermon,
Yet it seem'd not so to me;
For he spake of Ruth the beautiful,
And still I thought of thee.

Long was the prayer he utter'd,
Yet it seem'd not so to me;
For in my heart I pray'd with him,
And still I thought of thee.

But now, alas! the place seems changed;

Thou art no longer here:

Part of the sunshine of the scene

With thee did disappear.

Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart,

Like pine-trees dark and high, Subdue the light of noon, and breathe

A low and ceaseless sigh;

This memory brightens o'er the past,

As when the sun, conceal'd

Behind some cloud that near us hangs,
Shines on a distant field.

ROBIN REDBREAST.

GOOD-BYE, good-bye to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,

Cool breezes in the sun;
Our thrushes now are silent,

Our swallows flown away,

But Robin's here, in coat of brown, And scarlet breast-knot gay. Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!

Robin sings so sweetly

In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange,

The leaves come down in hosts;

The trees are Indian Princes,

But soon they'll turn to ghosts; The leathery pears and apples

Hang russet on the bough;

It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, "Twill soon be Winter now.