In lawns the murmuring bee is heard,
The wooing ring-dove in the shade;
On thy soft breath, the new-fledged bird
Takes wing, half happy, half afraid.

Ah! thou art like our wayward race; -
When not a shade of pain or ill

Dims the bright smile of Nature's face,
Thou lov'st to sigh and murmur still.

William Cullen Bryant,

THE EAST WIND.

HE East Wind is coming, all moist with the spray,

THE

And the odor of brine, from the billows at play;
The hot day is ending, and this puff from the sea
Is like a fond kiss of my mother for me.

Oh, day of midsummer! how gracefully now
This breeze from the ocean steals over my brow!

I remember that only two brief months ago.

The East Wind seemed coming from icebergs and snow;
So chill was its breath and so frigid its mien,
While May flaunted gayly her banners of green;
But lo! with the smile of our beautiful June,
Came its wooing embrace with the bobolink's tune;
A herald of gladness, passing graciously by,
To temper the heat of our fervid July.

O much abused East Wind! I will not again,
Methinks, of thy coming or presence complain;
For lingering yet, as a boon from the skies,
Thou art blessing the couch where a sufferer lies;

Giving strength to endure, and courage to bear,
His burden of pain, uncomplainingly there;
A respite from anguish, while soothingly now
Thy breath from the ocean is fanning his brow.
- Henry S. Washburn.

BEAU

TO A CLOUD.

EAUTIFUL cloud! with folds so soft and fair,
Swimming in the pure quiet air!

Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below
Thy shadow o'er the vale moves slow,

Where, midst their labor, pause the reaper train,

As cool it comes along the grain.

Beautiful cloud! I would I were with thee

In thy calm way o'er land and sea;

To rest on thy unrolling skirts, and look

On Earth as on an open book;

On streams that tie her realms with silver bands,

And the long ways that seam her lands,

And hear her humming cities and the sound

Of the great ocean breaking round.

Ay - I would sail, upon thy air-borne car,

To blooming regions distant far,

To where the sun of Andalusia shines
On his own olive groves and vines,
Or the soft lights of Italy's clear sky

In smiles upon her ruins lie.

But I would woo the winds to let us rest

O'er Greece, long fettered and oppressed,

Whose sons at length have heard the call that comes From the old battle-fields and tombs,

And risen, and drawn the sword, and on the foe
Have dealt the swift and desperate blow,

And the Othman power is cloven, and the stroke
Has touched its chains, and they are broke.
Ay, we would linger, till the sunset there
Should come to purple all the air,

And thou reflect upon the sacred ground
The ruddy radiance streaming round.

Bright meteor! for the summer noontide made!
Thy peerless beauty yet shall fade.

The sun, that fills with light each glistening fold,

Shall set, and leave thee dark and cold.

The blast shall rend thy skirts, or thou may'st frown In the dark heaven when storms come down;

And weep in rain, till man's inquiring eye

Miss thee, forever, from the sky.

William Cullen Bryant.

THE WIND AND THE SEA.

HE sea is a jovial comrade,

THE

He laughs wherever he goes;

His merriment shines in the dimpling lines

That wrinkle his hale repose.

He lays himself down at the feet of the sun,

And shakes all over with glee,

And the broad-backed billows fall faint on the shore.

In the mirth of the mighty sea!

But the wind is sad and restless,

And cursed with an inward pain;

You may hark as you will, by valley or hill,

But you hear him still complain.

He wails on the barren mountains,
And shrieks on the wintry sea;

He sobs in the cedar, and moans in the pine,
And shudders all over the aspen tree.

Welcome are both their voices,

And I know not which is best,

The laughter that slips from the ocean's lips,
Or the comfortless wind's unrest.

There's a pang in all rejoicing,

A joy in the heart of pain,

And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens,

Are singing the selfsame strain.

-Bayard Taylor.

WE

BEFORE THE RAIN.

E knew it would rain, for all the morn
A spirit on slender ropes of mist
Was lowering its golden buckets down
Into the vapory amethyst

Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens,
Scooping the dew that lay on the flowers,
Dipping the jewels out of the sea,

To sprinkle them over the land in showers.

We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed The white of their leaves, the amber grain Shrunk in the wind and the lightning now Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain!

Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER.

HE rain is o'er - How dense and bright

THE

Yon pearly clouds reposing lie!

Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight,
Contrasting with the deep-blue sky!

In grateful silence earth receives
The general blessing; fresh and fair,
Each flower expands its little leaves,
As glad the common joy to share.

The soften'd sunbeams pour around
A fairy light, uncertain, pale;

The wind flows cool, the scented ground

Is breathing odors on the gale.

Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile,
Methinks some spirit of the air
Might rest to gaze below a while,

Then turn to bathe and revel there.

The sun breaks forth from off the scene,

Its floating veil of mist is flung;

And all the wilderness of green

With trembling drops of light is hung.

Glowing with life, by breezes fanned,

Luxuriant, lovely, as she came,

Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand.

Hear the rich music of that voice,

Which sounds from all below, above,