And digs for himself a chain that shall bind 'Neath the festering fetters-the craving sin That dwarfs the soul within. Copy the peacock, then, which flies Major C. Campbell. THE MORNING LARK. FEATHER'D Songster, warbling high, TOLL for the brave, The brave that are no more! Eight hundred of the brave, A land breeze shook the shrouds, Down went the Royal George, Toll for the brave! His sword was in his sheath, Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes; The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, Full-charged with England's thunder And plough the distant main. But Kempenfelt is gone; His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Cowper. MAY. MAY, Sweet May, again is come, On the laughing hedgerow's side Hill and dale are May's own treasures; Up, then, children, we will go We the bursting flowers will see: Listen to the birds' sweet song; From the German. THE FROST. THE Frost look'd forth one still clear night, I will not go on like that blustering train, Then he flew to the mountain, and powder'd its crest; Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear He went to the windows of those who slept, Most beautiful things:-there were flowers and trees, But he did one thing that was hardly fair; I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he; Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking." Miss Gould. |