"I have no sweetheart," said the lad; mother." "And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, He So brave a son." gave the tar a piece of gold, Our sailor oft could scantly shift Campbell. SONG OF THE STRAWBERRY GIRL. Ir is summer! it is summer! how beautiful it looks; There is sunshine on the old grey hills, and sunshine on the brooks; A singing-bird on every bough, soft perfumes on the air, A happy smile on each young lip, and gladness everywhere! Oh! is it not a pleasant thing to wander through the woods, To look upon the painted flowers, and watch the opening buds; Or seated in the deep cool shade, at some tall ashtree's root, To fill my little basket with the sweet and scented fruit? They tell me that my father's poor-that is no grief to me When such a blue and brilliant sky my upturned eye can see; They tell me, too, that richer girls can sport with toy and gem; It may be so-and yet, methinks, I do not envy them. When forth I go upon my way, a thousand toys are mine, The clusters of dark violets, the wreaths of the wild vine; My jewels are the primrose pale, the bind-weed, and the rose; And show me any courtly gem more beautiful than those. And then the fruit! the glowing fruit, how sweet the scent it breathes! I love to see its crimson cheek rest on the bright green leaves ! Summer's own gift of luxury, in which the poor may share, The wild-wood fruit my eager eye is seeking everywhere. Oh! summer is a pleasant time, with all its sounds and sights; Its dewy mornings, balmy eves, and tranquil calm delights; I sigh when first I see the leaves fall yellow on the plain, And all the winter long I sing "Sweet summer come again!" THE GLOW-WORM. FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT BOURNE. BENEATH the hedge, or near the stream, Disputes have been, and still prevail, But this is sure,—the hand of Night, Perhaps indulgent nature meant, Nor crush a worm whose useful light Whate'er she meant, this truth divine 'Tis power Almighty bids him shine, Cowper. THE SANDS OF DEE. “O, MARY, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee; The western wind was wild and dark with foam, The western tide crept up along the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see, The rolling mist came down and hid the land: "O! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair- A drowned maiden's hair, Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel, crawling foam, The cruel, hungry foam, But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee. Kingsley. THE MOTHER AND BABE IN THE SNOW.1 THE cold winds swept the mountain height, A mother wandered with her child; Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone, "Oh God! she cried, in accents wild, "If I must perish-save my child!" She stripped her mantle from her breast, At dawn, a traveller, passing by, Saw her beneath the fleecy veil ; The frost of death was in her eye, Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale; Thus answered was the mother's prayer, The circumstances alluded to in these lines (which are taken from an American newspaper) occurred a few years ago in Vermont, United States. |