And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they? Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; -John Keats. THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. S this a time to be cloudy and sad, laughs around, When even the deep blue heavens look glad, And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground ? There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, And the wilding bee hums merrily by. The clouds are at play in the azure space, And their shadows at play on the bright green vale, And here they stretch to the frolic chase, And there they roll on the easy gale. There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles William Cullen Bryant. MORNING. EE, the day begins to break, And the light shoots like a streak Shepherds, rise, and shake off sleep! And the squirrel from the boughs Many a note and many a lay. -John Fletcher. lows; Through reedy ferns its sluggish current flows, Where lilies grow and purple-blossomed mallows. The aster-blooms above its eddies shine, With pollened bees about them humming slowly, And in the meadow-lands the drowsy kine Make music with their sweet bells, tinkling lowly. The shrill cicala, on the hillside tree, Sounds to its mate a note of love or warning; And turtle-doves re-echo, plaintively, From upland fields, a soft, melodious mourning. A golden haze conceals the horizon, A golden sunshine slants across the meadows; The pride and prime of summertime is gone, But beauty lingers in these autumn shadows. The wild hawk's shadow fleets across the grass, O sweet September! thy first breezes bring The dry leaf's rustle and the squirrel's laughter, The cool, fresh air, whence health and vigor spring, And promise of exceeding joy hereafter. THE VOICE OF THE WIND. HE wind, when first he rose and went abroad A voice so constant, soft, and lowly deep, Where he was born. - Henry Taylor. THE SONG OF THE WIND. 'VE a great deal to do, a great deal to do, Don't speak to me, children, I pray; These little boys' hats must be blown off their heads, And these little girls' bonnets away. There are bushels of apples to gather to-day, There are thousands of leaves lying lazily here, In the most distant part of the town. The rich nabob's cloak must have a good shake, Then there are signs to be creaked, and doors to be slammed, Loose window blinds too to be shaken; When you know all the business I must do to-day, You will see how much trouble I've taken. I saw some ships leaving the harbor to-day, And flap the broad sails, and howl through the shrouds, |