THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET.

THE poetry of earth is never dead:

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead: That is the grasshopper's-he takes the lead

In summer luxury-he has never done

With his delights, for when tired out with fun,
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:

On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,

And seems to one, in drowsiness half lost,
The grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

J. Keats.

THE BEE.

HOU wert out betimes, thou busy, busy bee!
As abroad I took my early way,
Before the cow from her resting-place
Had risen up and left her trace
On the meadow, with dew so gray,
Saw I thee, thou busy, busy bee.

Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy bee!
After the fall of the cistus flower,

When the primrose-of-evening was ready to burst,
I heard thee last, as I saw thee first;

In the silence of the evening hour,
Heard I thee, thou busy, busy bee.

Thou art a miser, thou busy, busy bee!
Late and early at employ;

Still on thy golden stores intent,

Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent, What thy winter will never enjoy ;

Wise lesson this for me, thou busy, busy bee!

Little dost thou think, thou busy, busy bee!
What is the end of thy toil.

When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone,
And all thy work for the year is done,
Thy master comes for the spoil.

Woe then for thee, thou busy, busy bee!

R. Southey.

BEES.

THEREFORE doth Heaven divide
The state of man in divers functions,
Setting endeavour in continual motion;
To which is fixed, as an aim or butt,
Obedience: for so work the honey-bees;
Creatures, that, by a rule in nature, teach
The act of order to a peopled kingdom.
They have a king and officers of sorts:

Where some, like magistrates, correct at home;
Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad;

Others, like soldiers, armëd in their stings,

Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds;

Which pillage they with merry march bring home
To the tent-royal of their emperor :

Who, busied in his majesty, surveys

The singing masons building roofs of gold;

The civil citizens kneading up the honey;

The poor mechanic porters crowding in
Their heavy burthens at his narrow gate;
The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum,
Delivering o'er to executors pale
The lazy yawning drone.

W. Shakspere.

THE GLOWWORM.

BENEATH the hedge, or near the stream,
A worm is known to stray;
That shows by night a lucid beam
Which disappears by day.

Disputes have been, and still prevail,
From whence his rays proceed;
Some give that honour to his tail,
And others to his head.

But this is sure-the hand of night
That kindles up the skies,
Gives him a modicum of light,
Proportion'd to his size.

Perhaps indulgent Nature meant,
By such a lamp bestow'd,
To bid the traveller, as he went,
Be careful where he trod;

Nor crush a worm, whose useful light
Might serve, however small,

To show a stumbling-stone by night,
And save him from a fall.

Whate'er she meant, this truth divine
Is legible and plain,

"Tis power almighty bids him shine,
Nor bids him shine in vain.

I

Ye proud and wealthy, let this theme.
Teach humbler thoughts to you,

Since such a reptile has its gem,

And boasts its splendour too.

W. Cowper.

THE HEDGE-ROWS.

EHOLD-a length of hundred leagues displayed-
That web of old historic tapestry

With its green patterns, broidered to the eye,

Is with domestic mysteries inlaid!

Here hath a nameless sire in some past age

In quaint uneven stripe or curious nook,
Clipped by the wanderings of a snaky brook,

Carved for a younger son an heritage.
There set apart, an island in a bower,

With right of road among the oakwoods round,
Are some few fields within a ring-fence bound,
Perchance a daughter's patrimonial dower.

So may we dream, while to our fancy come
Kind incidents and sweet biographies,
Scarce fanciful, as flowing from the ties

And blissful bonds which consecrate our home
To be an earthly heaven. From shore to shore
That ample, wind-stirred network doth ensnare
Within its delicate meshes many a rare
And rustic legend, which may yield good store
Of touching thought unto the passenger:
Domestic changes, families decayed,
And love or hate, in testaments displayed
By dying men, still in the hedge-rows stir.

F. W. Faber.

FIELD FLOWERS.

YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true,
Yet, wildings of Nature, I doat upon you,

For ye waft me to summers of old,

When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams
Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,
And of birchen glades breathing their balm,
While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote,
And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note
Made music that sweeten'd the calm.