What is it? a learned man
Could give it a clumsy name.
Let him name it who can,
The beauty would be the same.
The tiny cell is forlorn,
Void of the little living will
That made it stir on the shore.
Did he stand at the diamond door
Of his house in a rainbow frill ?
Did he push, when he was uncurled,
A golden foot or a fairy horn
Through his dim water-world?
Slight, to be crush'd with a tap
Of my finger-nail on the sand !
Small, but a work divine!
Frail, but of force to withstand,
Year upon year, the shock
Of cataract seas that snap
The three-decker's oaken spine
Athwart the ledges of rock,
Here on the Breton strand !

THE BROOM FLOWER.

Mary Howitt.

O THE Broom, the yellow Broom,

The ancient poet sung it, And dear it is on summer days

To lie at rest among it.

I know the realms where people say
The flowers have not their fellow;

; I know where they shine out like suns,

The purple and the yellow.

I know where ladies live enchained

In luxury's silken fetters, And flowers as bright as glittering gems

Are used for written letters.

But ne'er was flower so fair as this,

In modern days or olden;
It groweth on its nodding stem

Like to a garland golden.

And all about my mother's door

Shine out its glittering bushes, And down the glen, where clear as light

The mountain water gushes.

Take all the rest, but give me this,

And the bird that nestles in it. I love it for it loves the Broom,

The green and yellow linnet.

Well, call the rose the queen of flowers,

And boast of that of Sharon, Of lilies like to marble cups

And the golden rod of Aaron.

I care not how these flowers may be

Beloved of man and woman;

The Broom it is the flower for me,

That groweth on the common.

O the Broom, the yellow Broom,

The ancient poet sung it,
And dear it is on summer days

To lie at rest among it.

SEPTEMBER.

H. H.

The golden-rod is yellow,

The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards

With fruit are bending down.

The gentian's bluest fringes

Are curling in the sun,
In dusky pods the milkweed

Its hidden silk has spun.

The sedges flaunt their harvest

In every meadow-nook, , And asters by the brookside

Make asters in the brook.

By all these lovely tokens

September days are here, With summer's best of wealth

And autumn's best of cheer.

LADY MOON.

LORD HOUGHTON.

I SEE the Moon, and the Moon sees me;
God bless the Moon, and God bless me!

- Old Rhyme.

LADY Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving ?

6 Over the sea.” Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving ?

“All that love me.”

Are you not tired with rolling, and never

Resting to sleep?
Why look so pale and so sad, as forever

Wishing to weep?

“Ask me not this, little child, if you love me:

You are too bold :
I must obey my dear Father above me,

And do as I'm told.”

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?

“Over the sea." Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving ?

ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,
The linnet, and thrush say, “I love and I love !"
In the winter they're silent, the wind is so strong;
What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song.
But green leaves and blossoms, and sunny warm

weather, And singing and loving, all come back together; Then the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, “I love my Love, and my Love loves me.”

THE BALLAD OF THE THRUSH.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

ACROSS the noisy street,
I hear him careless throw
One warning utterance sweet ;
Then, faint at first and low,
The full notes closer grow –
Hark! what a torrent gush!
They pour, they overflow-
Sing on, - sing on, 0 Thrush!
What trick, what dream's deceit
Has fooled his fancy so
To scorn of dust and heat ?