And Childhood-poor, pinched Childhood, half forgets
The starving pittance of our cottage homes,
When he can leave the hearth, and chase the nets
Of gossamer that cross him as he roams.

The moping idiot seemeth less distraught
When he can sit upon the grass all day,

And laugh, and clutch the blades, as though he thought
The yellow sun-rays challenged him to play.

Ah! dearly now I hail the nightingale,

And greet the bee-the merry-going hummer— And when the lilies peep so sweet and pale,

I kiss their cheeks, and say-"Thank God for Summer!"

Feet that limp, blue and bleeding as they go
For dainty cresses in December's dawn,
Can wade and dabble in the brooklet's flow,
And woo the gurgles on a July morn.

The tired pilgrim, who would shrink with dread
If Winter's drowsy torpor lulled his brain;

Is free to choose his mossy summer bed,

And sleep his hour or two in some green lane.

Oh! Ice-toothed King, I loved you once-but now
I never see you come without a pang

Of hopeless pity shadowing my brow,

To think how naked flesh must feel your fang.

My eyes watch now to see the elms unfold,
And my ears listen to the callow rook;
I hunt the palm-trees for their first rich gold,
And pry for violets in the southern nook.

And when fair Flora sends the butterfly

Painted and spangled, as her herald mummer;
Now for warm holidays," my heart will cry,

"The poor will suffer less! Thank God for Summer!"

THE SNOWFLAKE.-HANNAH F. GOULD.

"Now, if I fall, will it be my lot
To be cast in some lone and lowly spot,
To melt, and to sink unseen, or forgot?

And there will my course be ended ?"
'Twas this a feathery Snowflake said,
As down through measureless space it strayed,
Or as, half by dalliance, half afraid,

It seemed in mid air suspended

"Oh, no!" said the Earth, "thou shalt not he
Neglected and lone on my lap to die,
Thou pure and delicate child of the sky!

For thou wilt be safe in my keeping.

But, then, I must give thee a lovelier form-
Thou wilt not be a part of the wintry storm,

But revive, when the sunbeams are yellow and warm,
And the flowers from my bosom are peeping!

"And then, thou shalt have thy choice, to be
Restored in the lily that decks the lea,
In the jessamine bloom, the anemone,

Or aught of thy spotless whiteness;

To melt, and be cast in a glittering bead

With the pearls that the night scatters over the mead,
In the cup where the bee and the firefly feed,
Regaining thy dazzling brightness.

"I'll let thee awake from thy transient sleep,
When Viola's mild blue eye shall weep,
In a tremulous tear; or, a diamond, leap

In a drop from the unlocked fountain;
Or, leaving the valley, the meadow, and heath,
The streamlet, the flowers, and all beneath,
Go up and be wove in the silvery wreath
Encircling the brow of the mountain.

"Or wouldst thou return to a home in the skies,
To shine in the Iris I'll let thee arise,

And appear in the many and glorious dyes

A pencil of sunbeams is blending!

But, true, fair thing, as my name is Earth,
I'll give thee a new and vernal birth,
When thou shalt recover thy primal worth,
And never regret descending!"

"Then I will drop," said the trusting flake;
"But, bear it in mind, that the choice I make
Is not in the flowers nor the dew to wake;

Nor the mist, that shall pass with the morning.
For, things of thyself, they will die with thee;
But those that are lent from on high, like me,
Must rise, and will live, from thy dust set free,
To the regions above returning.

"And if true to thy word and just thou art,
Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart,
Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart,
And return to my native heaven.

For I would be placed in the beautiful bow,
From time to time, in thy sight to glow;
So thou mayst remember the Flake of Snow
By the promise that GOD hath given!"

IMOGEN AT THE CAVE-SHAKSPEARE,

IMOGEN, in boy's clothes.

Imo. I see a man's life is a tedious one: I have tir'd myself; and for two nights together Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick, But that my resolution helps me.-Milford, When from the mountain-top Pisanio shew'd thee, Thou wast within a ken: O Jove! I think, Foundations fly the wretched: such, I mean, Where they should be reliev'd. Two beggars told me I could not miss my way: will poor folks lie, That have afflictions on them; knowing 'tis A punishment, or trial? Yes; no wonder, When rich ones scarce tell true: To lapse in fulness, Is sorer, than to lie for need: and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars.-My dear lord! Thou art one o' the false ones: now I think on thee, My hunger's gone; but even before, I was At point to sink for food.-But what is this? Here is a path to it; 't is some savage hold: I were best not call; I dare not call: yet famine, Ere clean it o'erthrow nature, makes it valiant. Plenty, and peace, breeds cowards; hardness evar Of hardiness is mother.-Ho! who's here? If anything that's civil, speak; if savage, Take, or lend.-Ho! no answer? then I'll enter. Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy But fear the sword like me, he'll scarcely look on't. Such a foe, good heaven! [She goes into the cave

Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS.

Bel. You, Polydore, have proved best woodman, and Are master of the feast: Cadwal and I,

Will play the cook and servant: 't is our match:

The sweat of industry would dry and die,

But for the end it works to. Come; our stomachs
Will make what's homely savory: Weariness
Can snore upon the flint, when restive sloth

Finds the down pillow hard.-Now, peace be here,
Poor house, that keep'st thyself!

Gui.
I am thoroughly weary.
Arv. I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite

Gui. There is cold meat i' the cave; we'll browze on that Whilst what we have kill'd be cook'd.

Bel. By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not, An earthly paragon!-Behold divineness No elder than a boy!

Enter IMOGEN.

Imo. Good masters, harm me not;

Before I enter'd here, I call'd; and thought

To have begg'd or bought what I have took: Good troth,
I have stolen nought; nor would not, though I had found
Gold strew'd o'er the floor. Here's money for my meat;
I would have left it on the board, so soon

As I had made my meal; and parted

With prayers for the provider.

Gui.

Money, youth?

Arv. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt! As 'tis no better reckon'd, but of those

Who worship dirty gods.

Imo.
Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should
Have died, had I not made it.

Bel.

I see you are angry;

Whither bound?

What is your name?

Imo. To Milford-Haven, sir.
Bel.

Imo. Fidele, sir: I have a kinsman, who
Is bound for Italy; he embark'd at Milford,
To whom being gone, almost spent with hunger,
I am fallen in this offence.

Bel.
Prythee, fair youth,
Think us no churls; nor measure our good minds
By this rude place we live in. Well encounter'd!
'Tis almost night; you shall have better cheer
Ere you depart; and thanks, to stay and eat it.-
Boys, bid him welcome.

Gui.
I should woo hard, but be your groom-In honesty,
I bid for you, as I'd buy.

Were you a woman, youth,

Arv.

I'll make 't my comfort

He is a man; I'll love him as my brother:

And such a welcome as I'd give to him,

After long absence, such as yours:-Most welcome!

Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst friends.

Imo.

'Mongst friends!
If brothers?-Would it had been so, that they
Had been my father's sons, then had my prize
Been less; and so more equal ballasting

To thee, Posthùmus.

Bel.

LAside.

He wrings at some distress.

Or I; whate'er it be,

[Whispering

Gui. 'Would, I could free't!
Arv.

What pain it cost! what danger! Gods!

Bel. Hark, boys.

Imo. Great men,

That had a court no bigger than this cave,

That did attend themselves, and had the virtue
Which their own conscience seal'd them, (laying by
That nothing gift of differing multitudes,)

Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, gods!
I'd change my sex to be companions with them,
Since Leonatus false.

Boys, we'll go dress our hunt-Fair youth, come in;
Discourse is heavy fasting; when we have supp'd,

We'll mannerly demand thee of thy story,

So far as thou wilt speak it.

Arv. The night to the owl, and morn to the lark less welcome Imo. Thanks, sir.

Arv. I pray, draw near.

[Exeunt

INVOCATION TO MORNING.-THOMSON.

The meek-eyed morn appears, mother of dews,
At first faint gleaming in the dappled east;
Till far o'er ether spreads the widening glow;
And, from before the lustre of her face,

White break the clouds away. With quickened step,
Brown Night retires: young Day pours in apace.

And opens all the lawny prospect wide.

The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top,
Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn.
Blue through the dusk, the smoking currents shine;
And from the bladed field the fearful hare

Limps awkward; while along the forest glade
The wild deer trip, and often, turning, gaze
At early passenger. Music awakes

The native voice of undissembled joy;

And thick around the woodland hymns arise.
Roused by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves
His mossy cottage, where with Peace he dwells.
And from the crowded fold, in order, drives
His flock, to taste the verdure of the morn
Falsely luxurious will not Man awake;
And, springing from the bed of sloth, enjoy
The cool, the fragrant, and the silent hour.

To meditation due and sacred song?

For is their aught in sleep can charm the wise?

To lie in dead oblivion, losing half

The fleeting moments of too short a life,

Total extinction of the enlightened soul!

Or else to feverish vanity alive,

Wildered and tossing through distempered dreams ?