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I long to hear the thundering crash

Of their terrific fall!
And the echoes from a thousand cliffs

Like lonely voices call.
Then shall we see the fierce white bear,

The sleepy seals aground,
And the spouting whales that to and fro

Sail with a dreary sound.
There may we tread on depths of ice

That the hairy mammoth hide,
Perfect as when, in times of old,

The mighty creature died.
And while the unsetting sun shines on

Through the still heaven's deep blue,
We'll traverse the azure waves, the herds

Of the dread sea-horse to view. We'll pass the shores of solemn pine

Where wolves and black bears prowl,
And away to the rocky isles of mist,

To rouse the Northern fowl.
And then, in wastes of the silent sky,

With silent earth below,
We shall see, far off to his lonely rock,

The lonely eagle go.
Then softly, softly will we tread

By inland streams, to see
Where the cormorant of the silent North

Sits there all silently.
We've visited the Northern clime,

Its cold and ice-bound main ;
So now let us back to a dearer land,
To Britain back again!

HAPPY insect! what can be
In happiness compared to ihee?



Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine ;
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup doth fill.
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing,
Happier than the happiest king.
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants belong to thee;
All that Summer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plough-
Farmer he, and landlord thou :
Thou dost innocently enjoy,
Nor does thy luxury destroy.
The country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year.
To thee, of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy insect ! happy thou !
Dost neither age nor winter know;
But when thou 'st drunk, and danced, and

Thy fill the flowery leaves among,
Sated with thy Summer feast,
Thou retir'st to endless rest.




THE summer! the summer! the exquisite time
Of the red rose's blush and the nightingale's chime,
The chant of the lark, and the boom of the bee,
The season of brightness, and beauty, and glee.
With sun-braided smiles, the deep heart of the glen,
It is here! it is here! it is lighting again,
It is touching the mountain and tingling the hill,
And dimpling the face of the low-laughing rill;
It is flooding the forest trees richly with bloom,
And flinging gold showers in the lap of the broom.
I have heard the lark warble his hymn in the sky,
I have seen the dew-tear in the meek daisy's eye,


I have scented the breath of the fresh-opened fowers,
I have plucked a rich garland from bright hawthorn bowers ;

My footsteps have been where the violet sleeps,
And where arches of eglantine hang from the steeps;


I have startled the linnet from thickets of shade,
And roused the fleet stag as he basked in the glade,
And my spirit is blithe as a rivulet clear,
For the summer, the golden-crowned summer, is here !

-7. Houseman.

FLOWERS of the field, how meet ye seem

Man's frailty to portray,
Blooming so fair in morning's beam,

Passing at eve away!
Teach this, and, oh ! though brief your reign,
Sweet flowers, ye shall not live in vain.
Go, form a monitory wreath

For youth's unthinking brow;
Go, and to busy mankind breathe

What most he fears to know;

Go, strew the path where age doth tread,

And tell him of the silent dead.

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But whilst to thoughtless ones and gay,

Ye breathe these truths severe,
To those who droop in pale decay

Have ye no word of cheer?
Oh, yes ! ye weave a double spell,
And death and life betoken well.

And though to unrelenting hearts

This truth may remain hidden, The cheerful light, the vital air,

Are blessings widely given ; Let nature's commoners enjoy The common gifts of Heaven.

The well-taught philosophic mind

To all compassion gives,
Casts round the world an equal eye,
And feels for all that lives.

-Mrs. Barbauld.


QUEEN of fragrance, lovely rose,
The beauties of thy leaves disclose,
The winter's past, the tempests fly,
Soft gales breathe gently through the sky;
The lark, sweet warbling on the wing,
Salutes the gay return of spring ;
The silver dews, the vernal bowers,
Call forth a bloomy waste of flowers.
The joyous fields, the shady woods,
Are clothed with green or swelled with buds;
Then haste thy beauties to disclose,
Queen of fragrance, lovely rose.
Thou, beauteous flower, a welcome guest,
Shalt flourish on the fair one's breast,
Shalt grace her hand or deck her hair,
The flower most sweet, the nymph most fair.
Breathe soft, ye winds; be calm, ye skies ;
Arise, ye flowery race, arise,
And haste thy beauties to disclose,
Queen of fragrance, lovely rose.



POETS still, in graceful numbers,

May the glowing roses choose, But the snowdrop's simple beauty

Better suits a humble Muse.

Earliest bud that decks the garden,

Fairest of the fragrant race, Firstborn child of vernal Flora,

Seeking mild thy lowly place; Though no warm or murmuring zephyr

Fan thy leaves with balmy wing, Pleased we hail thee, spotless blossom,

Herald of the infant spring.

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