Sickles ring,

Maidens sing

To the sickle's sound; Till the moon is beaming, And the stubble gleaming, Harvest songs go round.

All are springing,
All are singing
Every lisping thing;

Man and master meat

From one dish they eat ;

Each is now a king.

Hans and Michael

Whet the sickle,

Piping merrily.

Now they mow; each maiden

Soon with sheaves is laden,

Busy as a bee!

Now the blisses,

Now the kisses

Now the wit doth flow

Till the beer is out;

Then with song and shout,

Hence they go, yo ho!

Holly.

THRICE happy he who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own;
Though solitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that Eternal Love.

Oh, how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove,
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve!
Oh, how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flowers unfold,
Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath!

How sweet are streams, to poisons drank in gold!
The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights;
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

Drummond.

LITTLE STREAMS.

ITTLE streams are light and shadow,
Flowing through the pasture meadow
Flowing by the green wayside,
Through the forest dim and wild,
Through the hamlet still and small,
By the cottage, by the hall,
By the ruin'd abbey still,

Turning here and there a mill,

Bearing tribute to the river

Little streams, I love you ever.

Summer music is there flowing

Flowering plants in them are growing ;

Happy life is in them all,

Creatures innocent and small;

Little birds come down to drink,

Fearless of their leafy brink;
Noble trees beside them grow,
Glooming them with branches low;
And between the sunshine glancing
In their little waves is dancing.

Little streams have flowers a many,
Beautiful and fair as any:

Typha strong, and green bur-reed,
Willow-herb, with cotton-seed;

Arrow-head, with eye of jet,

And the water-violet.