H! the broom, the bonny, bonny broom, On my native hills it grows; I had rather see the bonny broom, Than the rarest flower that blows. Oh! the yellow broom is blossoming, In my own dear country; I never thought so small a thing THE BROOM. As a flower my nerveless heart could wring, Or draw a tear from me. It minds me of my native hills, Clad in the heath and fen; Of the green strath and the flowery brae, Of the glade and the rockless glen; It minds me of dearer things than these- Of humble faith on bended knees, It minds me of that blessed time, N Leven's banks, while free to rove I envied not the happiest swain My youthful limbs I wont to lave, With white, round, polished pebbles spread; The ruthless pike, intent on war; May numerous flocks and herds be seen; And shepherds piping in the dale; And ancient faith that knows no guile, And industry imbrowned by toil, And hearts resolved, and hands prepared, The blessings they enjoy to guard. TOBIAS GEORGE SMOLLET. The blessed God, who cares Ages have fled since then, That guides the steps of men, Hundreds have come to view My grandeur in decay; And there hath pass'd from me A quiet influence Into the minds of men: The majesty of laws, For that I stand to meet The rudeness of the sky. HENRY ALFORD. THE PHEASANT. LOSE by the borders of the fringed lake, And on the oak's expanded bough, is seen, What time the leaves the passing zephyrs shake, And gently murmur through the sylvan scene, The gaudy Pheasant, rich in varying dyes, That fade alternate, and alternate glow: Receiving now his color from the skies, And now reflecting back the watery bow. He flaps his wings, erects his spotless crest, His flaming eyes dart forth a piercing ray; He swells the lovely plumage of his breast, And glares a wonder of the Orient day. THE THRUSH. ONGSTER of the russet coat, Plain thy dress, but great thy skill, Small musician of the field, Near my bower thy tribute yield, Little servant of the ear, Ply thy task, and never fear. I will learn from thee to praise T last the golden oriental gate Of greatest heaven 'gan to open fair, And Phoebus, fresh as bridegroom to his mate, And hurls his glistening beams through gloomy air. "Tis winter, yet there is no sound Along the air Of winds along their battle-ground; The snow is falling, — all around RALPH HOYT. |