On thy fair bosom, silver lake,

O! I could ever sweep the oar,
When early birds at morning wake,
And evening tells us toil is o'er!

NIGHT AND DEATH

By Joseph Blanco White

YSTERIOUS

Night!

when

our first parent knew
Thee, from report divine, and
heard thy name,

Did he not tremble for this lovely
Frame,

This glorious canopy of Light
and Blue?

Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,
Bathed in the rays of the great setting Flame,
Hesperus, with the Host of Heaven, came,
And lo! Creation widened on Man's view.

Who could have thought such Darkness lay concealed

Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find, Whilst flower and leaf and insect stood revealed, That to such countless Orbs thou mad'st us blind! Why do we then shun Death with anxious strife? If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life?

THE DAISY

By James Montgomery

HERE is a flower, a little flower
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing
hour,

And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field.

In gay but quick succession shine;
Race after race their honors yield,
They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to Nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run,
Inwreathes the circle of the year
Companion of the sun.

It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charm,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arm.

The purple heath and golden broom,
On moory mountains catch the gale;
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale.

But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.

Within the garden's cultured round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground
In honor of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem;
The wild bee murmurs on its breast,
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem
Light o'er the skylark's nest.

'Tis Flora's page in every place,
In every season, fresh and fair;
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms everywhere.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;

The rose has but a summer reign;

The Daisy never dies!

THE TIGER

By William Blake

IGER! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symme-
try?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burned the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thine heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?

Did He, Who made the Lamb, make thee?

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

TO THE CUCKOO

By John Logan

AIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!

Thou messenger of Spring!
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

Soon as the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear.

Hast thou a star to guide thy path,

Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,

And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, thy most curious voice to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No Winter in thy year!

Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Attendants on the Spring.

THE O'LINCOLN FAMILY

By Wilson Flagg

FLOCK of merry singing-birds were sporting in the grove;

Some were warbling cheerily, and some were making love: