THE TOWN CHILD AND THE COUNTRY CHILD.
HILD of the country, free as The dew beneath the sloe-thorn where She bred her twins, the timorous hare, The knoll wrought o'er with wild bluebells Where brown bees build their balıny cells,
Art thou, and as the sun- shine fair;
Born like the lily, where The greenwood stream, the shady pool, the dew Where trouts leap when the day is cool. Lies odorous when the day The shilfa's nest, that seems to be A portion of the sheltering tree, And other marvels which my verse Can find no language to rehearse.
Lulled in the breast to that sweet tune Which winds make 'mong the woods of June. I sing of thee: 'tis sweet to sing Of such a fair and gladsome thing.
Child of the town, for thee I sigh: A gilded roof's thy golden sky; A carpet is thy daisied sod;
A narrow street thy boundless wood; Thy rushing deer's the clattering tramp Of watchmen; thy best light's a lamp; Through smoke, and not through trellised
And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines. I sing of thee in sadness where Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair?
Child of the country, thy small feet Tread on strawberries red and sweet; With thee I wander forth to see The flowers which most delight the bee, The bush o'er which the throstle sung In April while she nursed her young,
Child of the town, for thee, alas ! Glad Nature spreads nor flowers nor grass; Birds build no nests, nor in the sun Glad streams come singing as they run; A Maypole is thy blossomed tree, A beetle is thy murmuring bee; Thy bird is caged, thy dove is where The poulterer dwells, beside the hare; Thy fruit is plucked, and by the pound Hawked, clamorous, o'er the city round; No roses twin-born on the stalk Perfume thee in thy evening walk; No voice of birds, but to thee comes The mingled din of cars and drums, And startling cries, such as are rife When wine and wassail waken strife.
Child of the country, on the lawn I see thee like the bounding fawn, Blithe as the bird which tries its wing The first time on the wings of Spring, Bright as the sun when from the cloud He comes as cocks are crowing loud; Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams, Now groping trouts in lucid streams,
Now spinning like a millwheel round, Now hunting Echo's empty sound, Now climbing up some old tall tree
For climbing's sake: 'tis sweet to thee To sit where birds can sit alone, Or share with thee thy venturous throne.
Child of the town and bustling street, What woes and snares await thy feet! Thy paths are paved for five long miles, Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles, Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke, Which shrouds thee like a mourning-cloak, And thou art cabined and confined At once from sun and dew and wind; Or set thy tottering feet but on Thy lengthened walks of slippery stone: The coachman there careering reels With goaded steeds and maddening wheels, And Commerce pours each prosing son In pelf's pursuit, and halloos "Run!" While flushed with wine and stung at play Men rush from darkness into day;
The stream's too strong for thy small bark: There naught can sail save what is stark. Fly from the town, sweet child, for health Is happiness and strength and wealth; There is a lesson in each flower, A story in each stream and bower; On every herb o'er which you tread Are written words which, rightly read, Will lead you from earth's fragrant sod To hope and holiness and God.
And lockt men's looks within her golden Hath from the cunning workman's pencil flown
These lips look fresh and lively as her own,
Seeming to move and speak. Alas! now I Neither to be so great as to be envied,
Nor yet so poor the world should pity me.
WHAT LOVE IS LIKE.
LOVE is like a lamb, and love is like a
The reason why fond women love to buy Adulterate complexion; here 'tis read: False colors last after the true be dead. Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks, Of all the graces dancing in her eyes, Of all the music set upon her tongue, Of all that was past woman's excellence In her white bosom,-look! a painted board Circumscribes all. Earth can no bliss af- ford: Nothing of her but this! This cannot speak; Love is much in winning, yet is more in It has no lap for me to rest upon,
Fly from Love, he fights; fight, then does he fly on;
Love is all on fire, and yet is ever freezing;
No lip worth tasting. Here the worms will Love is ever sick, and yet is never dying;
But cannot shield the tempest from them- Thou prayest God to hasten to thine aid;
I love to dwell betwixt the hills and dales,
Immortal is thy soul: thy heart will heal.
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