42 THE POOR CHILD'S HYMN. -Yet some maintain that to this day That you may see sweet Lucy Gray O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. WORDSWORTH. 37. THE POOR CHILD'S HYMN. WE are poor and lowly born; Care and want beside. What of this? our blessed Lord Was of lowly birth, And poor, toiling fishermen Were his friends on earth! We are ignorant and young Gifted with but humble powers, What of this? our blessed Lord Loved such as we; How he blessed the little ones Sitting on his knee! MARY HOWITT. THE CUCKOO. 43 38. THE CUCKOO. DELIGHTFUL visitant! with thee The schoolboy, wandering through the wood, Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, And imitates thy lay. Soon as the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fliest the vocal vale; An annual guest in other lands, Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No Winter in thy year! LOGAN. 39. ARIEL'S SONG. WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I; In a cowslip's bell I lie : There I couch, when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly, After summer, merrily: Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. SHAKESPEARE. 44 A FIELD FLOWER. 40. A FIELD FLOWER. ON FINDING ONE IN BLOOM ON CHRISTMAS DAY. THERE is a flower, a little flower, The prouder beauties of the field But this small flower, to Nature dear, While moons and stars their courses run, Wreathes the whole circle of the year, Companion of the sun. It smiles upon the lap of May, To sultry August spreads its charms, But this bold floweret climbs the hill, Within the garden's cultured round The lambkin crops its crimson gem, A SUMMER INVOCATION. "Tis Flora's page ;-in every place, On waste and woodland, rock and plain, The rose has but a summer reign, The DAISY never dies. MONTGOMERY. 45 41. A SUMMER INVOCATION. O GENTLE, gentle, summer rain, In heat, the landscape quivering lies; Come thou and brim the meadow streams, BENNETT. 46 SHORT REFLECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE. 42. SHORT REFLECTIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE. How far that little candle throws his beams! Heaven doth with us as we with torches do; There's a divinity that shapes our ends, How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is Poor and content is rich, and rich enough; This above all,-to thine own self be true; 43. A CRADLE HYMN. SLEEP, Sweet babe! my cares beguiling: If thou sleep not, mother mourneth, COLERIDGE. |