H! the broom, the bonny, bonny broom, On my native hills it grows; I had rather see the bonny broom, Than the rarest flower that blows. Oh! the yellow broom is blossoming, In my own dear country; I never thought so small a thing THE BROOM. As a flower my nerveless heart could wring, Or draw a tear from me. It minds me of my native hills, Clad in the heath and fen; Of the green strath and the flowery brae, Of the glade and the rockless glen; It minds me of dearer things than these- Of humble faith on bended knees, It minds me of that blessed time, N Leven's banks, while free to rove And tune the rural pipe to love, I envied not the happiest swain My youthful limbs I wont to lave, With white, round, polished pebbles spread; The ruthless pike, intent on war; May numerous flocks and herds be seen; And shepherds piping in the dale; And ancient faith that knows no guile, And industry imbrowned by toil, And hearts resolved, and hands prepared, The blessings they enjoy to guard. TOBIAS GEORGE SMOLLET. HOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea, O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice! Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, As driven by a beating storm at sea; Thy cry is weak and scared, As if thy mates had shared The doom of us. Thy wail What does it bring to me? Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge, Restless and sad; as if, in strange accord With motion and with roar Of waves that drive to shore, One spirit did ye urge The Mystery- the Word. Of thousands thou both sepulchre and pall, Old ocean, art! A requiem o'er the dead, From out thy gloomy cells, A tale of mourning tells, Tells of man's woe and fall, His sinless glory fled. Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring Thy spirit nevermore. Come, quit with me the shore, For gladness and the light, Where birds of summer sing. RICHARD HENRY DANA. O daintie flowre or herbe that growes on grownd, And smelling sweete, but there it might be fownd arownd. The blessed God, who cares Ages have fled since then, That guides the steps of men, Hundreds have come to view My grandeur in decay; And there hath pass'd from me A quiet influence Into the minds of men: The majesty of laws, HENRY ALFORD. THE PHEASANT. LOSE by the borders of the fringed lake, And on the oak's expanded bough, is seen, What time the leaves the passing zephyrs shake, And gently murmur through the sylvan scene, The gaudy Pheasant, rich in varying dyes, That fade alternate, and alternate glow: Receiving now his color from the skies, And now reflecting back the watery bow. He flaps his wings, erects his spotless crest, His flaming eyes dart forth a piercing ray; He swells the lovely plumage of his breast, And glares a wonder of the Orient day. THE THRUSH. CONGSTER of the russet coat, Full and liquid is thy note; Plain thy dress, but great thy skill, Small musician of the field, Near my bower thy tribute yield, Ply thy task, and never fear. I will learn from thee to praise T last the golden oriental gate Of greatest heaven 'gan to open fair, And Phoebus, fresh as bridegroom to his mate, And hurls his glistening beams through gloomy air. 'Tis winter, yet there is no sound Along the air Of winds along their battle-ground; The snow is falling, - all around RALPH HOYT. |