THE VOICE OF THE GRASS.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere:
By the dusty road-side,

On the sunny hill-side,
Close by the noisy brook,

In every shady nook,

I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere.
All round the open door,
Where sit the aged poor,
Here where the children play,

In the bright and merry May,

I come creeping, creeping everywhere,

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere
In the noisy city street,

My pleasant face you'll meet,
Cheering the sick at heart,

Toiling his busy part,

Silently creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
You cannot see me coming,

Nor hear my low sweet humming;
For in the starry night,

And the glad morning light,

I come quietly creeping everywhere;

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; More welcome than the flowers,

In summer's pleasant hours;

The gentle cow is glad

And the merry bird not sad

To see me creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
When you're numbered with the dead,
In your still and narrow bed,

In the happy Spring I'll come
And deck your silent home,
Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ;
My humble song of praise
Most gratefully I raise

To Him at whose command

I beautify the land,

Creeping, silently creeping every where,

FIELD FLOWERS.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you 'tis true,
Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you,

For ye waft me to summers of old,

When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams

Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams→ And of birchen glades breathing their balm,

While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood pigeon's note, Made music that sweeten'd the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune

Then ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June:
Of old ruinous castles ye tell,

Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find,
When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind
And your blossoms were part of her spell,

Even now what affections that violet awakes!

What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,

Can the wild water lily restore !

What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks,
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks,
In the vetches that tangled the shore.

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear,

Had scathed my existence's bloom;

Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage,
With the visions of youth to revisit my age,
And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

"KINDERZEITNEN."

TRANSLATED FROM HEINE BY R. E. CLEVELAND.

My child, we two were children,
Merry and full of play;

We crawled in the little hen-houses,
And hid ourselves under the hay.

We clucked around like the chickens,
And the people out in the road,
When they heard our cock-a-doodle !
Thought a regular rooster crowed.

The old chest in the woodshed

We furnished and decked inside;

And dwelt in this elegant mansion,
And were very dignified.

The neighbors' old grimalkin

Came over to visit us there;

And we bowed and scraped and palavered
Enough to raise her hair,

We inquired after her matters

With anxious and friendly air; Since then, for many old pussies

We have shown the self-same care.

We often sat discreetly

And lamented, in old-folk phrase,
How everything so much better
Had been in our good old days.

How Faith and Truth and Friendship
In all the world now were not :
How much one must pay for coffee,
How scarce the money had got!

Gone are the plays of the children,

With their mocking wisdom and truth, And the World and Days and Money, And Love and Faith and Truth.

THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP.

E. J. POPE.

The workman's axe rings loud and long
Upon the good ship's stately side,
That soon in perfect form and strong
Upon the salt sea-waves shall ride..

Work on, ye workmen ! and with care
The goodly planks in order place;
Of knot, and sap, and splint beware,
That could in time your work disgrace :

And ye shall launch upon the sea
A noble ship-a stately home

For gallant souls, whose pride shall be
The ocean's pathless waste to roaạm.

Not for ignoble, selfish ends,

But human comfort to increase,
And bearing all that truly tends
To spread abroad the arts of peace.

Oh, what a picture is the life

Within a good ship's wooden walls, Of human cares, and of the strife That larger social states befalls!

How well we see the varying parts
That different members have to play,
With willing or unwilling hearts,

In darksome night or cheerful day ?

There one will governs-stern, supreme;
His lightest word a Spartan law,
In which the boldest would not dream
To find an error, seek a flaw.

And there the lowliest has a post
Important to the common weal :
The weakest lad may proudly boast-
"The whole e'en my poor presence feel!"

Yet are these labors, though unseen,
In deed and truth the motive pow ́r.
Without whose force the ship, I ween,
Could scarcely live another hour.

Should they rebel and seek the deck,

And cry-"We would all men should see The work we do!" how soon a wreck The gallant vessel then would be !

Yet are they not as foolish who,
Rebelling 'gainst the Will supreme,
Cry out upon the work they do,

And sigh for glory's phantom gleam?