Oh, the Nymphs and the Graces
Still gleam on his eyes,
And the kind fairy faces

Look down from the skies;

And a secret revealing

Of life within life,
When feeling meets feeling
In musical strife;

A winding and weaving
In flowers and in trees,
A floating and heaving
In sunlight and breeze;

A striving and soaring,
A gladness and grace,
Make him kneel half adoring
The God in the place.

Then amid the live shadows

Of lambs at their play,

Where the kine scent the meadows With breath like the May,

He stands in the splendour

That waits on the morn,
And a music more tender
Distils from his horn;

And he weeps, he rejoices,
He prays; nor in vain,
For soft loving voices

Will answer again;

And the Nymphs and the Graces

Still gleam through the dew,

And kind fairy faces

Watch little Boy Blue.

SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS.
Up the dale and down the bourne,
O'er the meadow swift we fly;
Now we sing, and now we mourn;
Now we whistle, now we sigh.

By the grassy-fringed river,

Through the murmuring reeds we sweep; 'Mid the lily-leaves we quiver, To their very hearts we creep.

Now the maiden rose is blushing
At the frolic things we say,
While aside her cheek we're rushing,
Like some truant bees at play.

Through the blooming groves we rustle,

Kissing every bud we pass,—

As we did it in the bustle,

Scarcely knowing how it was.

Down the glen, across the mountain,
O'er the yellow heath we roam,
Whirling round about the fountain,
Till its little breakers foam.

Bending down the weeping willows,
While our vesper hymn we sigh;
Then unto our rosy pillows
On our weary wings we hie.

There of idlenesses dreaming,
Scarce from waking we refrain,
Moments long as ages deeming
Till we're at our play again.

George Darley.

8

INCENTIVE TO EARLY RISING.

SOFT slumbers now mine eyes forsake,
My powers are all renew'd,
May my freed spirit too awake

With heavenly strength endued.

Thou silent murderer, Sloth, no more
My mind imprison'd keep;
Nor let me waste another hour
With thee, thou felon, Sleep.

Think, O my soul, could dying men
One lavish'd hour retrieve,

Though spent in tears, and pass'd in pain,
What treasures would they give!

But seas of pearls and mines of gold
Were offer'd them in vain;
Their pearl of countless price is sold,
And where's the promised gain?

Lord, when Thy day of dread account
For squander'd hours shall come,
O let not this increase th' amount,
And swell the former sum.

Teach me in health each good to prize
I dying shall esteem,
And every pleasure to despise

I then shall worthless deem.

For all thy wondrous mercies past
My grateful voice I'll raise,
While thus I quit my bed of rest,
Creation's Lord to praise.

Hannah More.