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'Tis thou that gladd'st with joy the rustic

throng,

Promptest the tripping dance, the exhilarating song.

Moon of Harvest, I do love
O'er the uplands now to rove,
While thy modest ray serene
Gilds the wide surrounding scene;
And to watch thee riding high

In the blue vault of the sky,

Where no thin vapor intercepts thy ray,
But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on
thy way.

Pleasing 't is, O modest Moon!
Now the night is at her noon,
'Neath thy sway to musing lie,
While around the zephyrs sigh,
Fanning soft the sun-tanned wheat,
Ripened by the summer's heat;
Picturing all the rustic's joy
When boundless plenty greets his eye,
And thinking soon,

O modest Moon!

How many a female eye will roam Along the road,

To see the load,

The last dear load of harvest-home.

Storms and tempests, floods and rains, Stern despoilers of the plains, Hence, away, the season flee, Foes to light-heart jollity! May no winds careering high Drive the clouds along the sky, But may all Nature smile with aspect boon, When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, O harvest Moon!

'Neath yon lowly roof he lies,

The husbandman, with sleep-sealed eyes: He dreams of crowded barns, and round The yard he hears the flail resound;

Oh! may no hurricane destroy

His visionary views of joy!

God of the winds! oh, hear his humble prayer, And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy blustering whirlwind spare.

Sons of luxury, to you

Leave I Sleep's dull power to woo;

Press ye still the downy bed,

While feverish dreams surround your head;
I will seek the woodland glade,
Penetrate the thickest shade,
Wrapped in Contemplation's dreams,
Musing high on holy themes,
While on the gale

Shall softly sail

The nightingale's enchanting tune, And oft my eyes

Shall grateful rise

To thee, the modest Harvest Moon!

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

NIGHT SONG.

THE moon is up in splendor,

And golden stars attend her;

The heavens are calm and bright;
Trees cast a deepening shadow,
And slowly off the meadow

A mist is rising silver-white.
Night's curtains now are closing
Round half a world reposing

In calm and holy trust.
All seems one vast, still chamber,
Where weary hearts remember

No more the sorrows of the dust.
MATTHIAS CLAUDIUS. (German.)

Translation of C. T. BROOKS.

TO NIGHT.

MYSTERIOUS 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 the curtain of translucent dew,
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus with the host of heaven came,
And lo! creation widened in man's view.
Who could have thought such darkness lay
concealed

Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find,
While fly, and leaf, and insect lay revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us
blind!

LITTLE inmate, full of mirth,
Chirping on my kitchen hearth,
Wheresoe'er be thine abode
Always harbinger of good,
Pay me for thy warm retreat
With a song more soft and sweet;
In return thou shalt receive
Such a strain as I can give.

Thus thy praise shall be expressed,
Inoffensive, welcome guest!
While the rat is on the scout,
And the mouse with curious snout,
With what vermin else infest
Every dish, and spoil the best;
Frisking thus before the fire,
Thou hast all thy heart's desire.

Though in voice and shape they be
Formed as if akin to thee,
Thou surpassest, happier far,
Happiest grasshoppers that are;
Theirs is but a summer's song-
Thine endures the winter long,
Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear,
Melody throughout the year.

WILLIAM COWPER.

TO A CRICKET.

VOICE of Summer, keen and shrill,
Chirping round my winter fire,
Of thy song I never tire,
Weary others as they will;

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For thy song with Summer's filled-
Filled with sunshine, filled with June;
Firelight echo of that noon
Heard in fields when all is stilled
In the golden light of May,
Bringing scents of new-mown hay,
Bees, and birds, and flowers away:
Prithee, haunt my fireside still,
Voice of Summer, keen and shrill!
WILLIAM C. BENNETT,

THE DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOW

AND is the swallow gone?

Who beheld it?

Which way sailed it? Farewell bade it none?

No mortal saw it go:

But who doth hear Its summer cheer As it flitteth to and fro ?

So the freed spirit flies!

From its surrounding clay
It steals away

Like the swallow from the skies.

Whither? wherefore doth it go? 'Tis all unknown;

We feel alone

That a void is left below.

WILLIAM HOWITT

A DOUBTING HEART.

WHERE are the swallows fled?

Frozen and dead

Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore O doubting heart!

Far over purple seas,

They wait, in sunny ease,

The balmy southern breeze

To bring them to their northern homes once

more.

Too much gazed at? Where's the maid
Whose lip mature is ever new?
Where's the eye, however blue,
Doth not weary? Where's the face
One would meet in every place?
Where's the voice, however soft,
One would hear so very oft!
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
Let, then, winged Fancy find
Thee a mistress to thy mind:
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter
Ere the god of Torment taught her
How to frown and how to chide;
With a waist and with a side
White as Hebe's when her zone

Slipt its golden clasp, and down
Fell her kirtle to her feet,
While she held the goblet sweet,

And Jove grew languid.-Break the mesh
Of the Fancy's silken leash;
Quickly break her prison-string,
And such joys as these she'll bring.—
Let the winged Fancy roam;
Pleasure never is at home.

JOHN KEATS.

Alow and aloof,

Over the roof,

How the tempests swell and roar!
Though no foot is astir,

Though the cat and the cur
Lie dozing along the kitchen floor,
There are feet of air
On every stair—
Through every hall!

Through each gusty door
There's a jostle and bustle,
With a silken rustle,

Like the meeting of guests at a festival!
Alow and aloof,

Over the roof,

How the stormy tempests swell! And make the vane

On the spire complain;

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They heave at the steeple with might and main, And burst and sweep

Into the belfry, on the bell! They smite it so hard, and they smite it so well, That the sexton tosses his arms in sleep, And dreams he is ringing a funeral knell !

Тпомля ВUCIANAN READ.

THE MIDNIGHT WIND.

MOURNFULLY! oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth sigh,
Like some sweet, plaintive melody
Of ages long gone by!

It speaks a tale of other years,—
Of hopes that bloomed to die,-
Of sunny smiles that set in tears,
And loves that mouldering lie!
Mournfully! oh, mournfully

This midnight wind doth moan!
It stirs some chord of memory
In each dull, heavy tone;
The voices of the much-loved dead
Seem floating thereupon,—
All, all my fond heart cherished
Ere death had made it lone.

Mournfully! oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth swell
With its quaint, pensive minstrelsy,-
Hope's passionate farewell