And now when comes the calm mild day-as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side.

In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely should have had a lot so brief;
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
W. C. Bryant.

THE CLIFF.

S slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,
Much musing on the track of terror past,

When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast,
Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil tide
That laves the pebbled shores; and now the beam
Of evening smiles on the gray battlement
And yon forsaken tower that time has rent:
The lifted oar far off with silver gleam

Is touched, and the hushed billows seem to sleep.
Soothed by the scene e'en thus on sorrow's breast
A kindred stillness steals, and bids her rest;
Whilst sad airs stilly sigh along the deep,
Like melodies that mourn upon the lyre,

Waked by the breeze, and as they mourn expire.

W. L. Bowles.

THE FIELD MOUSE.

WEE, sleekit, cowrin', tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou needna start awa' sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin and chase thee

Wi' murd'ring pattle! †

What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

A daimen icker in a thrave §

'S a sma' request:

I'll get a blessing wi' the lave,||

And never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin'!
And naething now to big ¶ a new ane
O' foggage green!

And bleak December's winds ensuin',

Baith snell ** and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,

And weary winter comin' fast,

And cozie here beneath the blast,

Till, crash! the cruel coulter past

Thou thought to dwell,

Out through thy cell.

* Hurrying run.

Pattle or pettle, the plough-spade.

§ An car of corn in a thrave-that is, twenty-four sheaves.

¶ Build.

Sometimes.

|| Remainder.

** Sharp.