As some lone bird, at day's departing | You yet may spy the fawn at play hour, [shower, The hare upon the green; Sings in the sunshine of the transient Forgetful, though its wings be wet the while. But ah! what ills must that poor heart endure, Who hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure. [REV. J. BLANCO WHITE. 1775-1841.] NIGHT AND DEATH. MYSTERIOUS Night! when our first parent knew Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, Hesperus with the host of heaven came, Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, O sun! or who could find, Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, But the sweet face of Lucy Gray “To-night will be a stormy night— That, father, will I gladly do! The minster-clock has just struck two, At this the father raised his hook Not blither is the mountain roe: The storm came on before its time: The wretched parents all that night, That to such countless orbs thou mad'st But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At daybreak on a hill they stood And, turning homeward, now they cried, Then downward from the steep hill's edge And then an open field they crossed: They followed from the snowy bank -Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, WE ARE SEVEN. A SIMPLE child That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; "Sisters and brothers, little maid, "And where are they? I pray you tell." "Two of us in the churchyard lie, "You say that two at Conway dwell, LUCY. Beneath her father's roof, alone SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways A maid whom there were none to praise, A violet by a mossy stone She lived unknown, and few could know I travelled among unknown men, 'Tis past, that melancholy dream! Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; And she I cherished turned her wheel Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed The bowers where Lucy played; And thine is too the last green field That Lucy's eyes surveyed. RUTH. WHEN Ruth was left half-desolate, And she had made a pipe of straw, She seemed to live; her thoughts her own; Herself her own delight: Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay, There came a youth from Georgia's shore, A military casque he wore With splendid feathers dressed; He brought them from the Cherokees, From Indian blood you deem him sprung With hues of genius on his cheek, The moon, the glory of the sun, He was a lovely youth! I guess And, when he chose to sport and play, Among the Indians he had fought; Such tales as, told to any maid By such a youth, in the green shade, He told of girls, a happy rout! To gather strawberries all day long; He spake of plants divine and st |