THE GREEN PASTURES.

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THE GREEN PASTURES.

I WALKED in a field of fresh clover this morn,
Where lambs played so merrily under the trees,
Or rubbed their soft coats on a naked old thorn,
Or nibbled the clover, or rested at ease.

And under the hedge ran a clear water-brook,
To drink from, when thirsty, or weary with play;
So gay did the daisies and buttercups look,

That I thought little lambs must be happy all day.

And when I remember the beautiful psalm,

That tells about Christ and his pastures so green; I know He is willing to make me his lamb,

And happier far than the lambs I have seen.

If I drink of the waters, so peaceful and still,
That flow in this field, I forever shall live;
If I love Him, and seek his commands to fulfil,
A place in his sheephold to me He will give.

The lambs are at peace in the fields when they play,
The long summer's day in contentment they spend;
But happier I, if in God's holy way,

I try to walk always, with Christ for my friend.

M. L. DUNCAN.

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THE CUCKO 0.

THE LARK.

Lo, hear the gentle Lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,

And wakes the morning from whose silver breast
The sun ariseth in his majesty;

Who does the world so gloriously behold,

The cedar tops and hills seem burnished gold.

SHAKSPEARE.

THE CUCKOO.

WHENCE is the magic pleasure of the sound?
How do we long recall the very tree,

Or bush, near which we stood, when on the ear
The unexpected note, cuckoo! again,

And yet again came down the budding vale?
It is the voice of spring among the trees;
It tells of lengthening days, of coming blooms;
It is the symphony of many a song.

But, there, the stranger flies close to the ground,
With hawk-like pinion, of a leaden blue.
Poor wanderer! from hedge to hedge she flies,

And trusts her offspring to another's care:

THE BLACKBIRD.

The sooty-plumed hedge-sparrow frequent acts
The foster-mother, warming into life

The youngling, destined to supplant her own.
Meanwhile, the Cuckoo sings her idle song,
Monotonous, yet sweet, now here, now there,
Herself but rarely seen; nor does she cease
Her changeless note, until the broom, full blown,
Gives warning that her time for flight is come.
Thus ever journeying on, from land to land,
She, sole of all the innumerous feathered tribes,
Passes a stranger's life, without a home.

GRAHAME.

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THE BLACKBIRD

WHEN snowdrops die, and the green primrose leaves

Announce the coming flower, the Merle's note,

Mellifluous, rich, deep-toned, fills all the vale,
And charms the ravished ear. The hawthorn bush,
New-budded, is his perch; there the gray dawn
He hails; and there, with parting light, concludes
His melody. There, when the buds begin
To break, he lays the fibrous roots; and, see,

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THE BLACKBIRD.

His jetty breast embrowned; the rounded clay
His jetty breast has soiled: but now complete,
His partner, and his helper in the work,
Happy assumes possession of her home;

While he, upon a neighboring tree, his lay,
More richly full, melodiously renews.

When twice seven days have run, the moment

snatch,

That she has flitted off her charge, to cool
Her thirsty bill, dipt in the babbling brook,
Then silently, on tiptoe raised, look in,
Admire: five cupless acorns, darkly specked,
Delight the eye, warm to the cautious touch.
In seven days more expect the fledgeless young,
Five gaping bills. With busy wing, and eye
Quick-darting, all alert, the parent pair
Gather the sustenance which Heaven bestows.
But music ceases, save at dewy fall

Of eve, when, nestling o'er her brood, the dam
Has stilled them all to rest: or at the hour

Of doubtful dawning gray; then from his wing
Her partner turns his yellow bill, and chants.
His solitary song of joyous praise.

GRAHAME.

TO DAFFODILS.

TO DAFFODILS.

FAIRE daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soone;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attained his noone:

Stay, stay,

Until the hastening day

Has run

But to the even-song;

And, having prayed together, we

Will goe with you along!

We have short time to stay, as you;

We have as short a spring,

As quick a growth to meet decay,

As you, or any thing:

Wę die,

As your hours doe; and drie

Away

Like to the summer's raine,

Or as the pearles of morning dew,

Ne'er to be found again.

6

HERRICK

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