ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.

BY JOHN KEATS.

THE Poetry of Earth is never dead :

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead : That is the grasshopper's he takes the lead

In summer luxury, - he has never done

With his delights; for, when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never :

On a lone winter evening, when the frost Hath wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,

And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, hills.

The grasshoppper among

the grassy

TO MY LITTLE COUSIN, WITH HER FIRST BONNET.

BY CAROLINE BOWLES.

FAIRIES! guard the baby's bonnet!
Set a special watch upon it;
Elfin people! to your care

I commit it fresh and fair;

Neat as neatness,— white as snow,

See ye keep it ever so.

Watch and ward set all about,
Some within, and some without :
Over it, with dainty hand,
One her kirtle green expand ;
Two or three about the bow
Vigilant concern bestow.

A score, at least, on either side,
'Gainst evil accident provide ;
Fall, or jar, or overlay ;

And so the precious charge convey
Through all the dangers of the way.
But when those are battled through,
Fairies! more remains to do:
Ye must gift, before ye go,

The bonnet and the babe also.

Gift it to protect her well, Fays from all malignant spell; Charms and seasons to defy, Blighting wind and evil eye.

And the bonny babe! on her,
All your choicest gifts confer.
Just as much of wit and sense
As may be hers, without pretence;
Just as much of grace and beauty
As shall not interfere with duty;
Just as much of sprightliness
As shall companion gentleness;
Just as much light-hearted cheer
As may be melted to a tear,

By a word,

a tone,

a look.

Pity's touch, or love's rebuke.

As much of frankness, bland and free,

As may consort with modesty ;

As much of feeling, as will bear

Of after-life the wear and tear;

As much of life but, fairies! there
Ye vanish into thinnest air!

And with ye parts the playful vein,
That loved a light and trivial strain.
Befits me better, babe! for thee
To invoke Almighty agency ;·
Almighty love Almighty power,
To nurture up the human flower;

To cherish it with heavenly dew, Sustain with earthly blessings too; And when the ripe full time shall be, Engraft it on eternity.

THE NEGLECTED CHILD.

BY T. H. BAILEY.

I NEVER was a favourite,
My mother never smiled
On me with half the tenderness
That blessed her fairer child:
I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek,
While fondled on her knee;
I've turned away to hide my tears,
There was no kiss for me!

And yet I strove to please, with all
My little store of sense;

I strove to please, and infancy
Can rarely give offence;
But when my artless efforts met
A cold ungentle check,

I did not dare to throw myself
In tears upon her neck.

How blessed are the beautiful!
Love watches o'er their birth;
Oh, beauty! in my nursery

I learned to know thy worth,-
For even there, I often felt
Forsaken and forlorn ;

And wished- for others wished it too

I never had been born!

I'm sure I was affectionate,

But in my sister's face

-

There was a look of love that claimed A smile or an embrace;

But when I raised my lip, to meet

The pressure children prize, None knew the feelings of my heart They spoke not in my eyes.

But, oh! that heart too keenly felt
The anguish of neglect;
I saw my sister's lovely form
With gems and roses decked;
I did not covet them; but oft,
When wantonly reproved,

I envied her the privilege
Of being so beloved.

But soon a time of triumph came

A time of sorrow too

For sickness o'er my sister's form
Her venomed mantle threw.