BIRDS.

Faded, yet full, a paler green

Skirts soberly the tranquil scene,

The red-breast warbles round this leafy cove.

Sweet messenger of calm decay,
Saluting sorrow as you may,

As one still bent to make, or find the best,

In thee, and in this quiet mead

The lesson of sweet peace I read, Rather in all to be resign'd than blest.

"Tis a low chant, according well
With the soft solitary knell,

As homeward from some grave belov'd we turn,
Or by some holy death-bed dear,

Most welcome to the chasten'd ear

Of her whom Heaven is teaching how to mourn.

O cheerful, tender strain! the heart
That duly bears with you its part,

Singing so thankful to the dreary blast,

Though gone and spent its joyous prime,
And on the world's autumnal time

'Mid withered hues, and sere, its lot be cast,

That is the heart for thoughtful seer,
Watching, in trance nor dark nor clear,
Th' appalling Future as it nearer draws;
His spirit calm'd the storm to meet,
Feeling the Rock beneath his feet,

And tracing through the cloud th' eternal Cause.

10*

JOHN KEBLE.

THE HE "Fate of the Butterfly" is one of the most charming of Spenser's lesser poems; and as it is seldom met with on American bookshelves, it has been inserted entire, or at least with the exception of a verse or two, in the present volume.

Familiar as we are with them, we seldom bear in mind how much the more pleasing varieties of the insect race add to the beauty and interest of the earth. Setting aside the important question of their different uses, and the appropriate tasks allotted to each-forgetting for the moment what we owe to the bee, and the silkworm, and the coral insect, with others of the same class-we are very apt to underrate them even as regards the pleasure and gratification they afford us. The utter absence of insect life is one of the most striking characteristics of our Northern American winters. Let us suppose for a moment that something of the same kind were

to mark one single summer of our lives-that the hum of the bee, the drone of the beetle, the chirrup of cricket, locust, and katydid, the noiseless flight of gnat, moth, and butterfly, and the flash of the firefly, were suddenly to cease from the days and nights of June-suppose a magic sleep to fall upon them all; let their tiny but wonderful forms vanish from their usual haunts; let their ceaseless, cheery chant of day and night be hushed, should we not be oppressed with the strange stillness? Should we not look wistfully about for more than one familiar creature? The gardens and the meadows would in very sooth scarce seem themselves without this lesser world of insect life, moving in busy, gay, unobtrusive variety among the plants they love; and we may well belieye that we should gladly welcome back the lowliest of the beetles, and the most humble of the moths which have so often crossed our path.

MUIOPOTMOS;

OR, THE FATE OF THE BUTTERFLIE.

DEDICATED TO THE MOST FAIRE AND VERTUOUS LADIE, THE LADIE CARKY.

I sing of deadly dolorous debate,

Stir'd up through wrathfull Nemesis despight,

Betwixt two mightie ones of great estate,

Drawne into armes, and proofe of mortall fight,
Through prowd ambition and hart-swelling hate,
Whilst neither could the others greater might
And sdeignfull scorne endure; that from small iarre
Their wraths at length broke into open warre.

The roote whereof and tragicall effect,
Vouchsafe. O thou the mournfulst Muse of nyne,
That wont'st the tragick stage for to direct,
In funerall complaints and wailefull tyne,
Reveale to me, and all the meanes detect,
Through which sad Clarion did at last decline
To lowest wretchednes: And is there then
Such rancour in the harts of mightie men?

Of all the race of silver-winged Flies
Which doo possesse the empire of the aire,
Betwixt the centred earth, and azure skies,
Was none more favourable, nor more faire,

Whilst heaven did favour his felicities,
Than Clarion, the eldest sonne and heire
Of Muscaroll, and in his fathers sight
Of all alive did seeme the fairest wight.

With fruitfull hope his aged breast he fed
Of future good, which his young toward yeares,
Full of brave courage and bold hardyhed
Above th' ensample of his equall Peares,
Did largely promise, and to him fore-red,
(Whilst oft his heart did melt in tender teares,)
That he in time would sure prove such an one,
As should be worthie of his fathers throne.

The fresh young Flie, in whom the kindly fire
Of lustful yongth began to kindle fast,
Did much disdaine to subiect his desire
To loathsome sloth, or houres in ease to wast,
But ioy'd to range abroad in fresh attire,
Through the wide compas of the ayrie coast;
And, with unwearied wings, each part t' inquire
Of the wide rule of his renowned sire.

For he so swift and nimble was of flight,

That from this lower tract he dar'd to stie

Up to the clowdes, and thence with pineons light
To mount aloft unto the cristall skie,

To view the workmanship of heavens hight:
Whence down descending he along would flie
Upon the streaming rivers, sport to finde;
And oft would dare to tempt the troublous winde.

So on a summers day, when season milde
With gentle calme the world had quieted,
And high in heaven Hyperion's fierie childe

Ascending did his beames dispred,

Whiles all the heavens on lower creatures smilde;

Young Clarion, with vauntfull lustiehed,

After his guize did cast abroad to fare;

And thereto gan his furnitures prepare.

His breast-plate first, that was of substance pure,

Before his noble heart he firmely bound,

That mought his life from yron death assure,
And ward his gentle corps from cruell wound :

For by it arte was framed, to endure

The bit of balefull steele and bitter stownd,

No lesse than that which Vulcane made to shield
Achilles life from fate of Troyan field.

And then about his shoulders broad he threw

An hairie hide of some wild beast, whom hee

In salvage forrest by adventure slew,

And reft the spoyle his ornament to bee;

Which, spredding all his backe with dreadfull view,
Made all, that him so horrible did see.
Thinke him Alcides with the Lyons skin,
When the Næméan conquest he did win.

Upon his head his glistering burganet,
The which was wrought by wonderous device,
And curiously engraven, he did set:
The metall was of rare and passing price;
Not Bilbo steele, nor brasse from Corinth fet,
Nor costly oricalche from strange Phoenice;
But such as could both Phoebus arrowes ward,
And th' hayling darts of heaven beating hard.

Therein two deadly weapons fixt he bore,
Strongly outlaunced towards either side,
Like two sharpe speares, his enemies to gore:
Like as a warlike brigandine, applyde
To fight, layes forth her threatfull pikes afore,
The engines which in them sad death doo hyde:
So did this Flie outstretch his fearfull hornes,
Yet so as him their terrour more adornes.

Lastly his shinie wings as silver bright,
Painted with thousand colours passing farre
All painters skill, he did about him dight:
Not halfe so manie sundrie colours arre

In Iris bowe; ne heaven doth shine so bright,
Distinguished with manie a twinckling starre;
Nor Iunoes bird, in her ey-spotted traine,
So many goodly colours doth containe.

Ne (may it be withouten perill spoken)
The Archer god, the sonne of Cytheree,
That ioyes on wretched lovers to be wroken,
And heaped spoyles of bleeding harts to see,