A frog leaps out from bordering grass, Do you observe him, and endeavor I would not circumscribe your love; It may soar with the eagle, and brood with the dove, Loving and Liking are the solace of life; XXVII. AIR. MISS JANE TAYLOR. WHAT is it that winds about over the world, Into each crack and crevice 'tis artfully curled; In summer's still evening how peaceful it floats, And no sound is heard but the nightingale's notes, The village bells glide on its bosom serene, The shepherd's soft pipe warbles over the green, But when winter blows, then it bellows aloud, With fury drives onward the snowy blue cloud, The sea rages wildly, and mounts to the skies And the sailor in vain turns his pitiful eyes Towards his dear, peaceable home. When fire lays and smothers, or gnaws through the beam, Air forces it fiercer to glow; And engines in vain in cold torrents may stream, In the forest it tears up the sturdy old oak, That many a tempest had known; The tall mountain's pine into splinters is broke, And yet though it rages with fury so wild, Pure air, pressing into the curious clay, XXVIII.—WATER. MISS JANE TAYLOR. WHAT is it that glitters so clear and serene, Or dances in billows so white? Ships skimming along on its surface are seen; "Tis Water that glitters so bright. Sea weeds wind about in its cavities wet, A thousand fair shells, yellow, amber, and jet, Whales lash the white foam in their frolicsome wrath, While hoarsely the winter wind roars, And shoals of green mackerel stretch from the north, And wander along by our shores. When tempests sweep over its bosom serene, The ships now appear to be buried between, It gushes out clear from the sides of the hill, Then waters the valley, and roars through the mill, The traveller, that crosses the desert so wide, Longs often to stoop at some rivulet's side, The stately white swan glides along on its breast, And the duckling unfledged waddles out of its nest The clouds, blown about in the chilly blue sky, Like snowy white feathers in winter they fly, When sunbeams so bright on the falling drops shine, And glows in the heavens a beautiful sign, XXIX.-CROTON WATER. MRS. CHILD. [The city of New York is supplied with water from the Croton River; hence the water is called Croton water. This poem expresses the feelings of a New York boy about this water.] O, BLESSED be the Croton! It floweth every where— It sprinkleth o'er the dusty ground, It cooleth all the air. It poureth by the wayside And chimney-sweeping boy. Poor little ragged children, Who sleep in wretched places, And if they find a big tub full, To the ever-running hydrant * To bathe themselves, and wet their tongues, The thirsty horse, he knoweth well And many a drunkard has forgot Then blessings on the Croton! We city boys take great delight It is good sport to guide a hose * Hydrant, a pipe, or spout, through which the water runs. |