From the mountain, and ere day
Bear a lamb or kid away;

Or the crafty thievish fox

Break upon your simple flocks.

FLETCHER.

VILLAGE SOUNDS.

SWEET was the sound, when oft, at evʼning's close,

Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ! There as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came soften'd from below: The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung; The sober herd that low'd to meet their young; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool; The playful children just let loose from school: The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisp❜ring wind;

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind: These all in soft confusion sought the shade, And fill'deach pause the nightingale had made.

GOLDSMITH.

A Storm in Harvest.

135

A STORM IN HARVEST.

Ev'N when the farmer, now secure of fear
Sends in the swains to spoil the finish'd year;
Ev'n when the reaper fills his greedy hands,
And binds the golden sheaves in brittle bands;
Oft have I seen a sudden storm arise

From all the warring winds that sweep the skies.
The heavy harvest from the root is torn,
And whirl'd aloft the lighter stubble borne;
With such a force the flying rack is driv❜n,
And such a winter wears the face of heav'n :
The lofty skies at once come pouring down;
The promis'd crop and golden labours drown.
The dikes are fill'd, and with a roaring sound
The rising rivers float the nether ground;
And rocks the bellowing voice of boiling seas
rebound.

The father of the gods his glory shrouds,
Involv'd in tempests and a night of clouds ;
And from the middle darkness flashing out,
By fits he deals his fiery bolts about.

Deep horror seizes ev'ry human breast,
Their pride is humbled, and their fear confest:
While he from high his rolling thunder throws,
And fires the mountains with repeated blows:
The rocks are from their old foundations rent;
The winds redouble, and the rains augment:
The waves in heaps are dash'd against the shore,
And now the woods and now the billows roar.
DRYDEN'S VIRGIL.

DAY-BREAK.

SEE, the day begins to break,
And the light shoots like a streak
Of subtle fire; the wind blows cold
While the morning doth unfold;
Now the bird begins to rouse,
And the squirrel from the boughs
Leaps, to get him nuts and fruit;
The early lark, that erst was mute,
Carols in the rising day

Many a note and many a lay.

FLETCHER.

THERE is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field

In gay but quick succession shine, Race after race their honours yield, They flourish and decline.

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,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arms.

The purple heath, and golden broom,
On moory mountains catch the gale,
O'er lawns the lilly sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale.

But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.

Within the garden's cultured round,
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms in consecrated ground
In honour of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem,

The wild bee murmurs on its breast,
The blue fly bends its pensile stem,
Light o'er the sky lark's nest.

'Tis Flora's page :-In every place,
In every season fresh and fair,
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms every where.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;

The rose has but a summer reign,
The Daisy never dies.

MONTGOMERY,