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!' LAND BIRD AT SEA. BIRD of the land! what dost thou here? Amid Newfoundland's misty bank, An undiscovered world to find? Whate'er thou art, how sad thy fate, For thee the widowed mate shall gaze Some eyrie on the Alpine cliff, Some proud Mount Blanc they fain would Snatch wreaths of laurel steep'd in gore, They lose of home the heartfelt joys, Years fleet, and still they struggle on, TO BLOSSOMS. Berrich. FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile And go at last. What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, "Twas pity nature brought ye forth But you are lovely leaves, where we THE LINNET. R. Nicholl. THE songs of nature, holiest, best are they! The streams' soft whispers, as they fondly stray Is 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 lean, And hear thy music wandering to and fro, Like sunshine glancing o'er the summer scene. Thou, poor man's songster-neither wealth nor power! Can match the sweetness thou around dost throw; Oh, bless thee for the joy of many an hour! In sombre forest, gray and melancholy, Of blossoms, and in hedge-rows green and lowly, 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! |