Go, rock the little woodbird in his nest,

Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest,

Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast: Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass.

The faint old man shall lean his silver head

To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep;
And they who stand about the sick man's bed,
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,

And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

Go-but the circle of eternal change,

Which is the life of nature, shall restore,

With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;
Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore;
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.

BRYANT.

OFTLY breathes the west wind beside the ruddy forest,

Taking leaf by leaf from the branches where

he flies,

Sweetly streams the sunshine, this third day of November, Through the golden haze of the quiet autumn skies.

Tenderly the season has spared the grassy meadows, Spared the petted flowers that the old world gave the

new,

Spared the autumn rose and the garden's group of pansies,

Late-blown dandelions and periwinkles blue.

On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes ungathered; Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee, Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them,

Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black walnut-tree.

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest green; Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing

With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen.

Like this kindly season may life's decline come o'er me; Past is manhood's summer, the frosty months are here; Yet be genial airs and a pleasant sunshine left me,

Leaf, and fruit, and blossom, to mark the closing year.

Dreary is the time when the flowers of earth are withered, Dreary is the time when the woodland leaves are cast; When, upon the hillside, all hardened into iron,

Howling like a wolf, flies the famished northern blast.

Dreary are the years when the eye can look no longer
With delight on nature, or hope on human kind;
Oh may those that whiten my temples, as they pass me,
Leave the heart unfrozen, and spare the cheerful mind.

BRYANT.

A FLOWER OF A DAY.

LD friend, that with a pale and pensile grace
Climb'st the lush hedgerows, art thou back again,
Marking the slow round of the wondrous years?
Didst beckon me a moment, silent flower?

Silent? As silent is the arcnangel's pen,
That day by day records our various lives,
And turns the page-the half-forgotten page
Which all eternitv will never blot.

Forgotten? No, we never do forget:

We let the years go; wash them clean with tears,
Leave them to bleach i' the sun and open day,
Or lock them careful by, like dead friends' clothes,
Till we shall dare unfold them without pain;
But we forget not-never can forget.

Flower, thou and I a moment face to face-
My face as clear as thine, this July noon

Shining on both, on bee and butterfly,
And golden beetle creeping in the sun-
Will pause, and lifting up page after page,
The quaint memorial chronicle of life,
Look backward, backward.

This July day with God's sun high in heaven,
And the whole earth rejoicing; let it close!

I think we need not sigh, complain, or rave:
Nor blush our doings and misdoings all

Being more 'gainst Heaven than man, Heaven doth them keep

With all Its doings and undoings strange

Towards us. Let the solemn volume close;

I would not alter in it one poor line.

My dainty flower, my innocent white flower,
With such a pure smile looking up at heaven,
With such a bright smile looking down on me-
(Nothing but smiles! as if in all the world
Were no such things as thunderstorms or rains,
Or broken petals battered on the earth,
Or shivering leaves whirled in the frosty air
Like ghosts of last year's joys)—my pretty flower,
Open thy breast: not one salt drop shall stain
Its whiteness. If these foolish eyes are full,
'Tis only at the wonder and the peace,

The wisdom and the sweetness of God's world.