Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, When upward springing, blythe to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Scarce rear'd above the parent earth The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, O' clod or stane, There in thy scanty mantle clad, But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! And guileless breast; Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd, Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, To mis'ry's brink; Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, He ruin'd sink. Ev'n thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, That fate is thine-no distant date; Stern ruin's plowshare drives, elate, Till, crush'd beneath the furious weight, ROBERT BURNS, 1750-1796. MOSSGIEL. "There," said a stripling, pointing with much pride Beneath the random field of clod or stone, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1770-1850. MEDLEY. THE FOREST-LEAVES IN AUTUMN. FROM "THE CHRISTIAN YEAR." Red o'er the forest peers the setting sun; Now the tir'd hunter winds a parting note, How like decaying life they seem to glide! And yet no second spring have they in store; But where they fall forgotten, to abide Is all their portion, and they ask no more. Soon o'er their heads blithe April airs shall sing; A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold; Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie, In all the world of busy life around Man's portion is to die and rise again— Yet he complains; while these unmurmuring part BOHEMIAN ANCIENT SONG. O ye forests, dark-green forests, Why in summer, and in winter, Are ye green and blooming? JOHN KEBLE. But now tell me, good folk, tell me, Ah! where is my dear father? Woe! he lies deep buried. Where my mother? O good mother! O'er her grows the grass! Brothers have I not, nor sisters, And my lad is gone! Translated by TALVI. LANDSCAPE AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. I wake, I rise; from end to end, Of all the landscape underneath, No gray old grange, or lonely fold, Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw, That hears the latest linnet trill, Nor rivulet trickling from the rock, Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves From left to right through meadowy curves, That feed the mothers of the flock; But each has pleased a kindred eye, And each reflects a kindlier day; I think once more he seems to die. ALFRED TENNYSON. Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed The bowers where Lucy played; And thine is, too, the last green field That Lucy's eyes surveyel! W. WORDSWORTH, 1770-1850. XVIII. The Calendar. THE OPENING YEAR. 0 JANUARY. RPHAN hours, the year is dead, Come and sigh, come and weep! Merry hours smile instead, For the year is but asleep. As an earthquake rocks a corse As the wild air stirs and sways |