SHEPHERD AND FLOCK.

Basking upon the shallows; with dark crest,

And threatening pomp, the swan go sailing by; And many a wild fowl on its breast that shone, Flickering like liquid silver, in the joyous sun; The duck, deep poring with her downward head, Like a buoy floating on the ocean wave; The Spanish goose, like drops of crystal, shed The water o'er him, his rich plumes to lave; The beautiful widgeɔn, springing upward, spread His clapping wings; the heron, stalking grave Into the stream; the coot and water-hen Vanish into the flood, then, far off, rise again :Such were their joys!

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HOWITT.

SHEPHERD AND FLOCK.

AROUND the adjoining brook, that purls along
The vocal grove, now fretting o'er a rock,
Now scarcely moving through a reedy pool,
Now starting to a sudden stream, and now
Gently diffused into a limpid plain;

A various group the her is and flocks compose,
Rural confusion! On the grassy bank

Some ruminating lie; while others stand
Half in the flood, and often bending sip
The circling surface. In the middle droops
The strong laborious ox, of honest front,
Which incomposed he shakes; and from his sides
The troublous insects lashes with his tail,
Returning still. Amid his subjects safe,
Slumbers the monarch-swain, his careless arm
Thrown round his head, on downy moss sustained
Here laid his scrip, with wholesome viands filled;
There, listening every noise, his watchful dog.

THOMSON.

SONNET ON COUNTRY LIFE.

To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair

And open face of heaven,-to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.

Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair

Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment? Returning home at evening, with an ear

Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye

MORNING IN SUMMER.

Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,
He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
E'en like the passage of an angel's tear

That falls through the clear ether silently.

KEATS.

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MORNING IN SUMMER.

AND soon, observant of approaching day,
The meek-eyed Morn appears, mother of dews,
At first faint gleaming in the dappled east ;
Till far o'er ether spreads the winding glow,
And from before the lustre of her face

White break the clouds away. With quickened step,
Brown Night retires: young Day pours in apace,
And opens all the lawny 'prospect wide.

The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top,

Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn.

Blue, through the dusk, the smoking currents shine;

And from the bladed field the fearful hare

Limps, awkward: while along the forest glade

The wild deer trip, and, often turning, gaze

At early passenger. Music awakes

The native voice of undissembled joy;

And thick around the woodland hymns arise.
Roused by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves
His mossy cottage, where with Peace he dwells;
And from the crowded fold, in order, drives
His flock, to taste the verdure of the morn.
But yonder comes the powerful King of Day,
Rejoicing in the east! The lessening cloud,
The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow
Illumed with fluid gold, his near approach
Betoken glad. Lo! now, apparent all,

Aslant the dew-bright earth, and colored air,

He looks in boundless majesty abroad;

And sheds the shining day, that burnished plays

On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering

streams,

High-gleaming from afar.

THOMSON.

THE WILD BRAMBLE.

THY fruit full well the school-boy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake!

So, put thou forth thy small white rose;
I love it for his sake.

THE WILD BRAMBLE.

Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow

O'er all the fragrant bowers,

Thou need'st not be ashamed to show

Thy satin-threaded flowers;

For dull the eye, the heart is dull,

That cannot feel how fair,

Amid all beauty beautiful,

Thy tender blossoms are!

How delicate thy gauzy frill!

How rich thy branchy stem!

How soft thy voice, when woods are still,
And thou sing'st hymns to them;
While silent showers are falling slow,
And, 'mid the general hush,

A sweet air lifts the little bough,
Lone whispering through the bush!
The primrose to the grave is gone;
The hawthorn flower is dead;
The violet by the mossed gray stone
Hath laid her weary head;

But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,

In all their beauteous power,

The fresh green days of life's fair spring,

And boyhood's blossomy hour.

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