And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.
Proudly careering his course of joy,
Firm in his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying;
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward and upward, true to the line.
He is floating down from his native grove:
No loved one now, no nestling nigh;
He is floating down by himself to die:
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.
THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF.
"OH! call my brother back to me!
I cannot play alone,
The summer comes with flower and bee-
Where is my brother gone?
"The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sunbeam's track;
I care not now to chase its flight—
Oh! call my brother back!
"The flowers run wild-the flowers we sowed
Around our garden tree;
Our vine is drooping with its load
Oh! call him back to me!"
He could not hear thy voice, fair child!
He may not come to thee;
The face that once like spring-time smiled,
On earth no more thou'lt see.
A rose's brief, bright life of joy,
Such unto him was given.
"Go-thou must play alone, iny boy!
Thy brother is in heaven.”
"And has he left his birds and flowers;
And must I call in vain?
And through the long, long summer hours,
Will he not come again?
"And by the brook and in the glade
Are all our wanderings o'er?
Oh! while my brother with me played,
Would I had loved him more."
THE SHEPHERD AND HIS DOG ROVER.
ROVER, awake! the grey cock crows;
Come, shake your coat, and go with me!
High in the east the green hill glows,
And glory crowns our sheltering tree.
The sheep expect us at the fold:
My faithful dog, let's haste away,
And in his earliest beams behold,
And hail, the source of cheerful day,
Half his broad orb o'erlooks the hill,
And darting down the valley flies:
At every casement welcome still,
The golden summons of the skies.
Go, fetch my staff; and o'er the dews
Let echo waft thy gladsome voice.
Shall we a cheerful note refuse,
When rising morn proclaims, "Rejoice?"
Он, come! for the lily is white on the lea;
Oh, come! for the wood-doves are paired on the tree :
The lark sings, with dew on her wings and her feet;
The thrush pours his ditty, loud, varied, and sweet:
So come where the twin hares 'mid fragance have been,
And with flowers I will weave thee a crown like a queen.
Oh, come! hark, the throstle' invites you aloud;
And wild comes the plover's cry down from the cloud;
The stream lifts its voice, and yon daisy's begun
To part its red lips and drink dew in the sun.
The throstle, tro thrush.
The sky laughs in light, earth rejoices in green-
So come, and I'll crown thee with flowers like a queen.
Oh, haste! hark, the shepherd hath wakened his pipe,
And led out his lambs where the blae-berry's' ripe.
The bright sun is tasting the dew on the thyme;
Yon glad maiden's lilting2 an old bridal rhyme.
There's joy in the heaven, and gladness on earth—
So, come to the sunshine, and mix in the mirth.
LIGHTLY row! lightly row!
O'er the glassy waves we go;
Smoothly glide, smoothly glide
On the silent tide.
Let the winds and waters be
Mingled with our melody,
Sing and float, sing and float,
In our little boat.
Far away! far away!
Echo in the rocks at play,
Calleth not, calleth not
To this lonely spot:
Only with the sea-bird's noto
Shall our dying music float;
Lightly row! lightly row!
Echo's voice is low.
Happy we, full of glee,
Sailing on the wavy sea;
Happy we, full of glee,
Sailing on the sea.
1 The bilbery or whortle berry.
Luna'sheds her softest light,
Stars are sparkling, twinkling bright;
Happy we, full of glee,
Sailing on the sea.
WHO taught the bird to build her nest
Of wool, and hay, and moss?
Who taught her how to weave it best,
And lay the twigs across?
Who taught the busy bee to fly
Amongst the sweetest flowers,
And lay her store of honey by,
To eat in winter hours?
Who taught the little ants the way
Their narrow holes to bore,
And thro' the pleasant summer's day,
To gather up their store?
"Twas God who taught them all the way,
And gave their little skill,
And teaches children when they pray,
To do His holy will.
THE LITTLE BOY AND THE STARS.
You little twinkling stars that shine
Above my head so high;
If I had but a pair of wings,
I'd join you in the sky.
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