very hunter did I rush

Upon the prey-with leaps and springs
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her! feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.

Pull the Primrose, Sister Anne!
Pull as many as you can.

Here are Daisies, take your fill;
Pansies, and the Cuckoo-flower:
Of the lofty Daffodil

Make your bed, and make your bower:
Fill your lap, and fill your bosom;
Only spare the Strawberry-blossom!

Primroses, the spring may love them--
Summer knows but little of them:
Violets, a barren kind,

Withered on the ground must lie;
Daisies leave no fruit behind
When the pretty flowerets die;
Pluck them, and another year
As many will be blowing here.

God has given a kindlier power
To the favoured Strawberry-flower.
When the months of Spring are fled
Hither let us bend our walk;
Lurking berries, ripe and red,
Then will hang on every stalk,
Each within its leafy bower;
And for that promise spare the Flower!

CHARACTERISTICS

OF A CHILD THREE YEARS OLD LOVING she is, and tractable, though wild; And Innocence hath privilege in her To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes; And feats of cunning; and the pretty round Of trespasses, affected to provoke Mock-chastisement and partnership in play. And, as a fagot sparkles on the hearth,

Not less if unattended and alone

Than when both young and old sit gathered round And take delight in its activity,

Even so this happy creature of herself

Is all-sufficient; solitude to her

Is blithe society, who fills the air

With gladness and involuntary songs.

Light are her sallies as the tripping Fawn's

73

He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,

And rings a sharp 'larum; — but, if you should look,
There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were cover'd with silk.
Sometimes he 'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;
-Yet seek him,—and what shall you find in the place?
Nothing but silence and empty space;
Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,
That he's left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves!

As soon as 't is daylight, to-morrow with me,
You shall go the orchard, and then you will see
That he has been there, and made a great rout,
And cracked the branches, and strewn them about:
Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig
That looked up at the sky so proud and big
All last summer, as well you know,
Studded with apples, a beautiful show!

Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
And growls as if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle
Drive them down, like men in a battle:

- But let him range round; he does us no harm,
We build up the fire, we're snug and warm;
Untouched by his breath see the candle shines bright,
And burns with a clear and steady light;
Books have we to read, but that half-stifled knell,
Alas! 't is the sound of the eight o'clock bell.
- Come now we'll to bed! and when we are there
He may work his own will, and what shall we care?

-

THE MOTHER'S RETURN.

By the same.

A MONTH, Sweet Little-ones, is passed
Since your dear Mother went away,-
And she to-morrow will return;
To-morrow is the happy day.

O blessed tidings! thought of joy! The eldest heard with steady glee; Silent he stood; then laughed amain, And shouted, "Mother, come to me!"

Louder and louder did he shout, With witless hope to bring her near; "Nay, patience! patience, little boy! Your tender mother cannot hear."

I told of hills, and far-off towns,
And long, long vales to travel through;
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed,
But he submits; what can he do?

No strife disturbs his Sister's breast;
She wars not with the mystery
Of time and distance, night and day,
The bonds of our humanity.

Her joy is like an instinct, joy
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly;
She dances, runs, without an aim,
She chatters in her ecstasy.

Her brother now takes up the note, And echoes back his Sister's glee; They hug the Infant in my arms, As if to force his sympathy.

Then, settling into fond discourse,
We rested in the garden bower;
While sweetly shone the evening sun
In his departing hour.

We told o'er all that we had done,-
Our rambles by the swift brook's side
Far as the willow-skirted pool,
Where two fair swans together glide.

We talked of change, of winter gone, Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray, Of birds that build their nests and sing, And "all since Mother went away!"