gay

I see the hill's far-gazing head, Where thou noddest in the gale; I hear light-bounding footsteps tread The grassy path that winds along the vale.

I hear the voice of woodland song Break from each bush and wellknown tree,

And, on light pinions borne along, Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee.

O'er the dark rock the dashing brook,

With look of anger, leaps again, And, hastening to each flowery nook, Its distant voice is heard far down the glen.

Fair child of art! thy charms decay,
Touched by the withered hand of
Time;

And hushed the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime:

But on my heart thy cheek of bloom Shall live when Nature's smile has

fled;

And, rich with memory's sweet perfume,

Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense shed.

There shalt thou live and wake the glee

That echoed on thy native hill; And when, loved flower! I think of thee,

My infant feet will seem to seek thee still.

THOMAS MILLER.

EVENING SONG.

How many days with mute adieu
Have gone down yon untrodden sky,
And still it looks as clear and blue
As when it first was hung on high.
The rolling sun, the frowning cloud
That drew the lightning in its rear,
The thunder tramping deep and loud.
Have left no foot-mark there.

Come softened by the distant shore;
The village-bells, with silver chime,
Though I have heard them many a time,
They never rung so sweet before.
A silence rests upon the hill,
A listening awe pervades the air;
The very flowers are shut and still,
And bowed as if in prayer.

And in this hushed and breathless close,
O'er earth and air and sky and sea,
A still low voice in silence goes,
Which speaks alone, great God, of thee.
The whispering leaves, the far-off brook,
The linnet's warble fainter grown,
The hive-bound bee, the building rook, -

All these their Maker own.

Now Nature sinks in soft repose,
A living semblance of the grave;
The dew steals noiseless on the rose,
The boughs have almost ceased to wave;
The silent sky, the sleeping earth,
Tree, mountain, stream, the humble sod,
All tell from whom they had their birth,
And cry, "Behold a God!"

JOHN KEBLE.

[1796-1821.]

MORNING.

O, TIMELY happy, timely wise,
Hearts that with rising morn arise!
Eyes that the beam celestial view,
Which evermore makes all things new!

New every morning is the love
Our wakening and uprising prove