The clouds are at play in the azure space,

And their shadows sport in the deep green vale;
And here they stretch to the frolic chase,
And there they roll in the easy gale.

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,
There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree,
There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles
On the dewy earth, that smiles in his ray,
On the leaping waters and gay young isles,-
Ay, look, and he'll smile all thy gloom away.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

MORNING.

ORTH from the world of sunshine, laughing morn
Come forth! come forth!

And to her shadows drive reluctant night;

Smile on the rose, and dry the diamond tears

That she has wept for thee;

And she will turn in modest joy to thee her blushing cheek,

And to thy searching gaze reveal her charms.

Up, up to heaven's gate the lark ascends,

And hails thy coming with a jocund song;

And as he shakes the dew-drop from his wing,

He soars with joy into thy laughing face.

Then comes the fever'd student, pale with thought,
And wearied with the dark night vigils;

Mark how he turns his thankful eye to heaven,
As thy pure breezes fan his burning brow,
And chase each sombre thought at once away!
The little child arises from his couch,
And shading from his eyes the glorious sun,
Kneels down, and offers up his oft-taught prayer
To God, who sent thee forth to wake him up:
And let me bend my knee with thee, sweet child,
And jointly offer up to Him a prayer,

Who to the anxious weeping mother said,—
"Suffer thy children to come unto me,

And oh, forbid them not.”

WILDER.

SONNET.

HE honey-bee, that wanders all day long,
The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er,
To gather in his fragrant winter store,
Humming in calm content his quiet song,

Seeks not alone the rose's glowing breast,

The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips-
But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips

The single drop of sweetness closely press'd
Within the poison chalice. Thus, if we

Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet,
In all the varied human flowers we meet,
In the wide garden of humanity;

And like the bee, if home the spoil we bear,
Hived in our hearts, it turns to nectar there.

ANNE C. LYNCH.

ARK! the bee winds her small but mellow horn,
Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn,
O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course,
allures her to its source.

That eye so finely wrought,

Beyond the reach of sense, the soar of thought,
Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind,

Its orb so full, its vision so confined!
Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell?

Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell?
With conscious truth retrace the mazy clue

Of varied scents, that charm'd her as she flew ?
Hail, memory, hail! thy universal reign

Guards the least link of being's glorious chain.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER.

HY fruit full well the schoolboy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake !

So, put thou forth thy small white rose ;

I love it for his sake.

Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow

O'er all the fragrant bowers,

Thou need'st not be ashamed to show
Thy satin-threaded flowers;

For dull the eye, the heart is dull
That cannot feel how fair,
Amid all beauty, beautiful

Thy tender blossoms are!
How delicate thy gauzy frill!

How rich thy branchy stem!

How soft thy voice, when woods are still,
And thou sing'st hymns to them!
While silent showers are falling slow,
And, 'mid the general hush,
A sweet air lifts the little bough,

Lone whispering through the bush!
The primrose to the grave is gone;
The hawthorn flower is dead;
The violet by the moss'd gray stone
Hath laid her weary head;

But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,

In all their beauteous power,

The fresh green days of life's fair spring,
And boyhood's blossomy hour.

Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more

Thou bidd'st me be a boy,

To rove with thee the woodlands o'er,

In freedom and in joy.

EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

WOODS.

HERE is a quiet spirit in these woods,

That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows-
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.

With what a tender and impassion'd voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast-ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the grey hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowl'd and dusky-sandal'd eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade,
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,

Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter;
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,

Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself

In all the dark embroidery of the storm,

And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid

The silent majesty of these deep woods,

Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,

As to the sunshine and the bright pure air

Their tops the green trees lift.

Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades;
For them there was an eloquent voice in all--
The sylvan pomp of woods-the golden sun—
The flowers-the leaves-the river on its way-
Blue skies—and silver clouds-and gentle winds-
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun