MINNOWS.

OW silent comes the water round that bend;

H. Not the minutest whisper does it send

To the o'erhanging sallows; blades of grass
Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass,
Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach
To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach
A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds;

Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,
Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams,
To taste the luxury of sunny beams

Tempered with coolness. How they ever wrestle
With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle
Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand.

If

you but scantily hold out the hand,

That very instant not one will remain ;

But turn your eye, and they are there again.
The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,
And cool themselves among the em'rald tresses ;
The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,
And moisture, that the bowery green may live.

-John Keats.

THE SONG OF A SUMMER STREAM.

FEW months ago

I was singing through the snow!

But now the blessed sunshine is filling all the

land!

And the memories are lost

Of the winter fog and frost,

In the presence of the summer with her full and glowing hand.

Now the woodlark comes to drink

At my cool and pearly brink,

And my lady-fern is bending to kiss my rainbow foam ;

And the wild-rose buds entwine

With the dark-leaved bramble vine,

And the centuried oak is green around the brighteyed squirrel's home.

Oh, the full and glad content
That my little song is blent

With the all-melodious mingling of the choristers

around!

I no longer sing alone,

Through a chill pervading moan,

For the very air is trembling with its wealth of summer sound.

Though the hope seemed long deferred
Ere the south wind's whisper heard

Gave a promise of the passing of the weary winter days,

Yet the blessing was secure,

For the summer-time was sure,

When the lonely songs are gathered in a mighty choir of praise.

GREEN

RIVER.

WHEN breez

es are soft

and skies are

fair,

I steal an hour

from study and

care,

And hie me away

to the woodland scene,

Where wanders the stream with waters of green,

As if the bright fringe of
herbs on its brink

Had given their stain to the waves they drink,
And they, whose meadows it murmurs through,
Have named the stream from its own fair hue.

Yet pure its waters, its shallows are bright
With colored pebbles and sparkles of light,
And clear the depths where its eddies play,
And dimples deepen and whirl away,

And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot
The swifter current that mines its root,

Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill,
The quivering glimmer of sun and rill
With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown,

Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stone.
Oh, loveliest there the spring days come,
With blossoms, and birds, and wild-bees' hum;
The flowers of summer are fairest there,
And freshest the breath of the summer air;
And sweetest the golden autumn day
In silence and sunshine glides away.

Yet fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide,
Beautiful stream! by the village side;
But windest away from the haunts of men,
To quiet valley and shaded glen ;

And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill,
Around thee are lonely, lovely, and still;
Lonely -- save when by thy rippling tides,
From thicket to thicket the angler glides;
Or the simpler comes, with basket and book,
For herbs of power on thy banks to lock;
Or, haply, some idle dreamer like me
To wander and muse, and gaze on thee;
Still
save the chirp of birds that feed
On the river cherry and seedy reed,
And thy own wild music gushing out
With mellow murmur of fairy shout,
From dawn to the blush of another day,
Like traveler singing along his way.

--

That fairy music I never hear,

Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear,

And mark them winding away from sight,
Darkened with shade or flashing with light,
While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings,
And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings,
But I wish that fate had left me free

To wander these quiet haunts with thee,
Till the eating cares of earth should depart,
And the peace of the scene pass into my heart;
And I envy thy stream, as it glides along
Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song.

Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, And scrawl strange words with a barbarous pen, And mingle among the jostling crowd,

Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud

I often come to this quiet place,

To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face,

And gaze upon thee in silent dream,
For in thy lonely and lovely stream,

An image of that calm life appears
That won my heart in my greener years.

ON

The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,
And round his breast the ripples break,
As down he bears before the gale.

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream,
The dipping paddle echoes far,