A SERMON FOUND IN A BROOK.

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brook,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.

LISTEN to yon merry bird,

Warbling in the apple-tree;

Taught by the sunny day to pour
Its gladness into melody.

When the dying yellow leaf

SHAKSPEARE.

Flutters in the Autumn air,
Its drooping spirit chilled with grief
Will not carol there.

But a pure and guileless heart

In sunshine singeth all day long,

Nor doth Summer e'er depart
From its quiet home of song.

Through the shady alders look,

Where the moonlight gilds the ground,
See the limpid village brook,

Journeying on with pleasant sound.

In the cloudiest Winter night,

It floweth, though unseen;
We trace its course at morning light
By a brighter hue of green.

Such thy gentle life should be,

Ever peaceful and serene;
That each joyful eye may see

Where thy freshening path hath been.

THE FIRST-BORN.

Γυναι, φιλον μεν φέγγος ηλις τοδε.

EURIPID. Frag. Danac.

BEAUTIFUL, O woman! the sun on flower and tree, And beautiful the balmy wind that dreameth on the

sea;

And softly soundeth in thine ear the song of peasants reaping,

The dove's low chant among the leaves, its twilight vigil keeping.

And beautiful the hushing of the linnet in her nest, With her young beneath her wings, the sunset on her breast;

While hid among the flowers, where the drowsy bee is

flitting,

Singing unto its own glad heart, the village child is sitting.

And beautiful unto thy soul, at summer time to wait Till Moonlight with her sweet pale feet comes gliding to thy gate;

Thy trusting eyes upturned unto thy love with timid

grace,

He feels thine arm about his neck, thy kisses on his face!

Beautiful, O gentle girl! these pleasant thoughts to thee,

These golden sheaves, long harvested within thy memory!

But when thy face grows dim with weariness and care, And thy heart, forgetting all its songs, awaketh but to prayer,

Thou lookest for a gleeful face, thine opening eyes to greet,

While Winter gathers on thy breast, the shadow round thy feet:

Beautiful, O woman! the green earth and the flowers may be,

But sweeter far the voice of thy first-born child to thee!

AN IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM.

ONE morning in the grassy lane
A lily fair I spied;

The linnet's meek and tender strain
Rose sweetly by its side.

But in the soft declining eve,

Again I passed that quiet spot;

How could I choose but stand and grieve,
To find the simple flower was not?

And in the fate of that fair thing,

An emblem of my hope I found;

The morning saw it flourishing;

The evening, withered on the ground!

A FOUNTAIN IN THE WOODS REVISITED.

No spirit of an antique stream

Haunted a dwelling more divine,
More worthy of the poet's dream,
Than this green mossy shrine.

Dear wood, how well to me are known

Thy boughs by Summer-breezes fanned; The dark nest where the dove hath flown, The water ruffled by my hand.

And here, beneath these solemn bowers,

Where Silence loves to pitch her tent, I watched the white feet of the Hours

Silver the stainless element.

Till Moonlight o'er the glimmering lawn,
Meek Ghost of Darkness, glided by;
While Evening, like a weary fawn,
Slept in the gardens of the sky.

For then life's sun its flush of light
Through every gathering vapour rolled :
Alas! how soon the wind of night
Scattered those clouds of gold.

And Fancy's face, no more to shine,
From her fair cave of beauty fled;

Her eyes forgot to beam on mine,
Her feet forgot my bed.

Grief found me then, and through my breast

The storm began to sweep;

Again I sought the green wood's rest,

But then, sweet fount, I came to weep.