Зображення сторінки


“The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing (1) winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown

and sere (2) Heap'd in the hollows of the grove the wither'd leaves lie

dead, They rustle to the eddying (3) gust, and to the rabbit's tread.

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the

jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the

gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately

sprung and stood, In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood !

Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours, The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November

rain, Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.”

BRYANT. (1) Wailing-sorrowful.-—(2) Sero-withered.—(3) Eddyingmoving in a ring.

This piece, written by a talented American Poet, describes truthfully the appearance of the country about the month of November,—the lovely flowers have disappeared—the feathered songsters are gone to more sunny climes—the trees are bare--the wind blows cold and we love our pleasant firesides.


Bound upon the accursed tree,
Faint and bleeding who is He ?
By the eyes so pale and dim,
Streaming blood and writhing (1) limb,
By the flesh with scourges torn,
By the crown of twisted thorn,
By the side so deeply pierced,
By the baffled burning thirst,
By the drooping death-dew'd brow,
Son of Man! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou !

Bound upon the accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is He ?-
By the sun at noon-day pale,
Shivering rocks, and rending veil,
By earth that trembles at his doom,
By yonder saints who burst their tomb,
By Eden, promised ere He died
To the felon (2) at his side,
Lord ! our suppliant knees we bow,
Son of God ! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou!


(1) Writhing-distorted, trembling with pain. -(2) Felon--one guilty of a capital offence.


Ye mariners of England!

Who guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved a thousand years

The battle and the breeze,
Your glorious standard launch again,

To match another foe,
And sweep through the deep

While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages long and loud,

And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave !
For the deck it was their field of fame,

And Ocean was their grave;
Where Blake (1) and mighty Nelson fell,

Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages long and loud,

And the stormy tempests blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves,

Her home is on the deep;

(1) Blake—a celebrated English Admiral in the time of Cromwell. He defeated the Dutch fleet at various times, and after gaining many decisive battles over the Spaniards, was seized with a dropsy, of which he died 1657.

With thunders from her native oak,

She quits the floods below,
As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages long and loud,

And the stormy tempests blow.

The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn,
Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors !

Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.



A Nightingale that all day long
Had cheer'd the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended, (1)
Nor yet when even-tide was ended
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite:
When looking eagerly around,
He spied, far off upon the ground,

(1) Suspended-stopped, left off.

A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glow-worm by his spark;
So stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.

The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent;-
“Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,
“As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor (2) to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song ;
For 'twas the self-same power divine,
Taught you to sing and me to shine,
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.”

The songster heard his shoi i oration,
And warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.

COWPER. (2) Abhor-dislike. The Nightingale, as its name implies, sings at night, as well as in the day time, when its song is not so readily to be distinguished as in the calm moonlight when all the sounds of nature are hushed, excepting where this solitary warbler pours forth its rich and exquisite melody. It frequents close shrubberies and visits our island only in the summer time, leaving it again in the winter for Africa, and warmer climates. The Nightingale builds a beautiful nest and lays generally five eggs of an olive brown colour. It feeds on worms, insects and berries.

The Glow-worm is a small creeping insect that shines in the dark by a luminous tail.

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