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Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes!
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves !
The deep, distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is come,

Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and the borders of the brook,
Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver waters break
Into small waves, and sparkle as he comes.

LITTLE STREAMS.

BRYANT.

ITTLE streams are light and shadow,
Flowing through the pasture meadow-

Flowing by the green way-side,

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.

There the flowering rush you meet,

And the plumy meadow-sweet;
And in places deep and stilly,
Marble-like, the water-lily.

Little streams, their voices cheery,

Sound forth welcomes to the weary;

Flowing on from day to day,

Without stint and without stay;

Here, upon their flowery bank,

In the old time pilgrims drank;

Here have seen, as now, pass by,

King-fisher, and dragon-fly;

Those bright things that have their dwelling,

Where the little streams are welling.

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RURAL SOUNDS.

OR rural sights alone, but rural sounds,
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore

The tone of languid nature.-Mighty winds,
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike
The dash of ocean on his winding shore,
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind;
Unnumbered branches waving in the blast,
And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once.
Nor less composure waits upon the roar
Of distant floods, or on the softer voice
Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length
In matted grass, that with a livelier green
Betrays the secret of their silent course.
Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,
But animated nature sweeter still,

To soothe and satisfy the human ear.

Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one

The live-long night: nor these alone, whose notes

Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain,

But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime

In still repeated circles, screaming loud,

The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl,
That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.
Sounds inharmonious in themselves, and harsh,
Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns,
And only there, please highly for their sake.

Cowper.

MORNING TWILIGHT.

HROUGH the vales the breezes sigh;
Twilight opes her bashful eye;
Peeping from the East, she brings
Dewdrops on her dusky wings :
And the lark, with wakening lay,
Upsprings, the harbinger of day.

Now behold the blushing sky
Tells the bridegroom Sun is nigh;
Nature tunes her joyful lyre,
And the trembling stars retire.

Him the East, in crimson drest,
Ushers, nature's welcome guest.
And the mountains of the West
Seem to lift their azure heads,
Jealous of the smiles he sheds.

Glory, beaming from on high,

Charms devotion's lifted eye;

Bliss, to which sluggards ne'er were born,
Waits the attendant of the morn.

MARY M. COLLING.

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