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Drive not here to me
Translated by J. G. PERCIVAL
THE DYING SWAN.
The plain was grassy, wild, and bare,
An under-roof of doleful gray.
Ever the weary wind went on
Some blue peaks in the distance rose,
One willow over the river wept,
The tangled water-courses slept,
The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul
Of that waste place with joy
And floating about the under-sky,
But anon her awful jubilant voice,
As when a mighty people rejoice
Through the open gates of the city afar,
And the willow-branches hoar and dank,
And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank,
THE TWA CORBIES.
OLD SCOTTISH BALLAD.
As I gaed doun by yon house-en',
“ | down beside yon new-faun birk,
“ () we'll sit on his bonnie briest-bane,
“ Mony a ane for him maks mane,
Anonymous, about 1600.
THE RED-BREAST IN SEPTEMBER.
The morning mist is clear'd away,
Yet still the face of heaven is gray,
Faded, yet full, a paler green
Skirts soberly the tranquil scene,
Sweet messenger of calm decay,
Saluting sorrow as you may,
In thee, and in this quiet mead
The lesson of sweet peace I read, Rather in all to be resign'd than blest.
'Tis a low chant, according well
With the soft solitary knell, As homeward from some grave belov'd we turn,
Or by some holy death-bed dear,
Most welcome to the chasten'd ear Of her whom Heaven is teaching how to mourn.
O cheerful, tender strain! the heart
That duly bears with you its part, Singing so thankful to the dreary blast,
Though gone and spent its joyous prime,
And on the world's autumnal time
That is the heart for thoughtful seer,
Watching, in trance nor dark nor clear, Th’ appalling Future as it nearer draws;
His spirit calm’d the storm to meet,
Feeling the Rock beneath his feet, And tracing through the cloud th' eternal Cause.
of Spenser's lesser poems; and as it is seldom met with on American bookshelves, it has been inserted entire, or at least with the exception of a verse or two, in the present volume.
Familiar as we are with them, we seldom bear in mind how much the more pleasing varieties of the insect race add to the beauty and interest of the earth. Setting aside the important question of their different uses, and the appropriate tasks allotted to each-forgetting for the moment what we owe to the bee, and the silkworm, and the coral insect, with others of the same class--we are very apt to underrate them even as regards the pleasure and gratification they afford us. The utter absence of insect life is one of the most striking characteristics of our Northern American winters. Let us suppose for a moment that something of the same kind were
to mark one single summer of our lives--that the hum of the bee, the drone of the beetle, the chirrup of cricket, locust, and katydid, the noiseless flight of gnat, moth, and butterfly, and the flash of the firefly, were suddenly to cease from the days and nights of June-suppose a magic sleep to fall upon them all; let their tiny but wonderful forms vanish from their usual haunts ; let their ceaseless, cheery chant of day and night be hushed, should we not be oppressed with the strange stillness ? Should we not look wistfully about for more than one familiar creature? The gardens and the meadows would in very sooth scarce seem themselves without this lesser world of insect life, moving in busy, gay, unobtrusive variety among the plants they love ; and we may well believe that we should gladly welcome back the lowliest of the beetles, and the most humble of the moths which have so often crossed our path.
OR, THE FATE OF THE BUTTERFLIE.
DEDICATED TO THE MOST FAIRE AND VERTCOUS LADIE, THE LADIE CARKY.
I sing of deadly dolorous debate,