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95.—THE SPRING JOURNEY. . Oh! green was the corn as I rode on my way, And bright were the dews on the blossoms of May, And dark was the sycamore's shade to behold, And the oak's tender leaf was of emerald and gold. The thrush from the holly, the lark from the cloud, Their chorus of rapture sung jovial and loud; From the soft vernal sky, to the soft grassy ground, There was beauty above me, beneath, and around. The mild southern breeze brought a shower from

the hill, And yet, though it left me all dripping and chill, I felt a new pleasure as onward I sped To gaze where the rainbow gleam'd broad overhead. Oh! such be life's journey, and such be our skill, To lose in its blessing the sense of its ill, Through sunshine and shower may our progress

be even, And our tears add a charm to the prospects of Heaven!



A nightingale, that all day long
Had cheer'd the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite ;

When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glow-worm by his spark ;
So, stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent-
“ Did you admire my lamp,” quoth he,
“ As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song;
For 'twas the self-same power divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine ;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.”
The songster heard his short oration,
And warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.


MORAL. [1]

From this short fable, youth may learn
Their real interest to discern;
That brother should not strive with brother,
And worry and oppress each other ;
But, joined in unity and peace,
Their mutual happiness increase :
Well pleas'd another's faults to hide,
And in his virtues feel a pride.
[1] The moral here given is by another hand


Down in my solitude under the snow,

Where nothing cheering can reach me; Here, without light to see how to grow,

I'll trust to nature to teach me.

I will not despair, nor be idle, nor frown,

Lock'd in so gloomy a dwelling; My leaves shall run up and my roots shall run down,

While the bud in my bosom is swelling.
Soon as the frost will get out of my bed,

From this cold dungeon to free me,
I will peer up with my little bright head

All will be joyful to see me.
Then from my heart will young buds diverge (1)

As rays of the sun from their focus ; [2] And I from the darkness of earth will emerge

A happy and beautiful crocus !
Gaily arrayed in my yellow and green

When to their view I have risen,
Will they not wonder how one so serene

Came from so dismal a prison.

Many, perhaps, from so simple a flower

This useful lesson may borrow:-
Patient to-day, through its gloomiest hour,

We come out the brighter to-morrow!

[1] Diverge-spread out as from a centre.
[2] Focus-the place where rays meet.

What is grandeur ? what is power?
Heavier toil, superior pain.
What the bright reward we gain ?

The grateful memory of the good.
Sweet is the breath of vernal show'r,
The bee's collected treasure sweet,
Sweet music's melting fall;—but sweeter yet
The still, small voice of gratitude.


Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot :
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.



Horatio, of ideal courage vain,
Was flourishing in air his father's cane,

And, as the fumes of valour swell’d his pate,
Now thought himself this hero and now that ;
And now,” he cried, “ I will Achilles (1) be;
My sword I brandish : mark! the Trojans flee!
Now I'll be Hector, (I) when his angry blade
A lane through heaps of slaughtered Greciansmade!
And now my deeds, still braver, I'll evince,
I am no less than Edward the Black Prince-
Give way ye coward French !” as thus he spoke,
And aim'd in fancy a sufficient stroke
To fix the fate of Crecy or Poictiers —
Heroically spurning trivial fears-
His milk-white hand he strikes against a nail,
Sees his own blood, and feels his courage fail.
Ah! where is now that boasted valour flown,
That in the tented field so late was shown?
Achilles weeps, great Hector hangs his head,
And the Black Prince goes whimpering to bed.

Mrs. Leicester.



St. Philip Neri, as old writers say,
Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day;
And, being ever courteously inclin'd
To give young folks a sober turn of mind,

[1] Achilles and Hector-heroes celebrated in the Trojan war.

[2] St. Philip Neri-an eminent Roman Catholic priest, who flourished in the 16th Century.

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