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?
Think not of them; thou hast thy music, too,
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river swallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

-John Keats.

THE GLADNESS OF NATURE.

'S this a time to be cloudy and sad,

When our mother Nature 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 gossip of swallows through all the sky; The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den,

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
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,
On the leaping waters and gay young isles, -
Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.

-

- William Cullen Bryant.

MORNING.

EE, the day begins to break,

SEE,

And the light shoots like a streak
Of subtile fire; the wind blows cold,
While the morning doth unfold;
Now the birds begin to rouse.

Shepherds, rise, and shake off sleep!
See, the blushing morn doth peep
Through the windows, while the sun
To the mountain-tops is run,
Gilding all the vales below.

And the squirrel from the boughs
Leaps, to get him nut and fruit;

The early lark that erst was mute,
Carols to the rising day

Many a note and many a lay.

-John Fletcher.

N flickering light and shade the broad stream goes, With cool, dark nooks and checkered, rippling shal

lows;

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,
Its softened gray the softened green outvying;
And fair scenes fairer grow while yet they pass,
As breezes freshen when the day is dying.

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.

- George Arnold.

VOICE OF THE WIND.

HE wind, when first he rose and went abroad Through the waste region, felt himself at fault, Wanting a voice, and suddenly to earth Descended with a wafture and a swoop, Where, wandering volatile, from kind to kind, He wooed the several trees to give him one. First he besought the ash; the voice she lent Fitfully, with a free and lashing change, Flung here and there its sad uncertainties: The aspen next; a fluttered frivolous twitter Was her sole tribute from the willow came, So long as dainty summer dressed her out, A whispering sweetness; but her winter note Was hissing, dry, and reedy : lastly the pine Did he solicit; and from her he drew A voice so constant, soft, and lowly deep, That there he rested, welcoming in her A mild memorial of the ocean cave Where he was born.

THE SONG OF THE WIND.

'VE a great deal to do, a great deal to do,

I'VE

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,
And O! there's no end to the nuts;
Over many long roads I must traverse away,
And many by-lanes and short cuts.

There are thousands of leaves lying lazily here,
That needs must be whirled round and round;
A rickety house wants to see me, I know,

In the most distant part of the town.

The rich nabob's cloak must have a good shake,
Though he does hold his head pretty high;
And I must not slight Betty, who washes so clean,
And has just hung her clothes out to dry.

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,
So I'll e'en go and help them along,

And flap the broad sails, and howl through the shrouds,
And join in the sailor boy's song.