Drive not here to me Ah! of all thy doves None can comfort me, Only he, the father Of my little ones." Translated by J. G. PERCIVAL. THE DYING SWAN. The plain was grassy, wild, and bare, An under-roof of doleful gray. Ever the weary wind went on And shook the reed-tops as it went. Some blue peaks in the distance rose, And white against the cold-white sky One willow over the river wept, And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; Chasing itself at its own wild will, And far through the marish green and still The tangled water-courses slept, Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Hidden in sorrow; at first to the ear But anon her awful jubilant voice, As when a mighty people rejoice With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, Through the open gates of the city afar, To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank, ALFRED TENNYSON. THE TWA CORBIES. OLD SCOTTISH BALLAD. As I gaed doun by yon house-en', Twa corbies there were sittand their lane. The tane unto the tother sae, "O where shall we gae dine to-day?" "O down beside yon new-faun birk, There lies a new-slain knicht, Nae livin kens that he lies there, But his horse, his hounds, and his lady fair. "His horse is to the huntin gone, His hounds to bring the wild deer hame; His lady's taen another mate; Sae we may make our dinner swate. "O we'll sit on his bonnie briest-bane, And we'll pyke out his bonnie grey e'en ; "Mony a ane for him maks mane, Anonymous, about 1600, THE RED-BREAST IN SEPTEMBER. The morning mist is clear'd away, Nor yet th' autumnal breeze has stirr'd the grove, Faded, yet full, a paler green Skirts soberly the tranquil scene, The red-breast warbles round this leafy cove. Sweet messenger of calm decay, As one still bent to make, or find the best, In thee, and in this quiet mead The lesson of sweet peace I read, Rather in all to be resign'd than blest. 'Tis a low chant, according well As homeward from some grave belov'd we turn, Most welcome to the chasten'd ear Of her whom Heaven is teaching how to mourn. O cheerful, tender strain! the heart Singing so thankful to the dreary blast, Though gone and spent its joyous prime, 'Mid withered hues, and sere, its lot be cast, That is the heart for thoughtful seer, And tracing through the cloud th' eternal Cause. 10* JOHN KEBLE. THE of Spenser's lesser poems; and as it is seldom met with on American bookshelves, it has been inserted entire, or at least with the exception of a verse or two, in the present volume. Familiar as we are with them, we seldom bear in mind how much the more pleasing varieties of the insect race add to the beauty and interest of the earth. Setting aside the important question of their different uses, and the appropriate tasks allotted to each-forgetting for the moment what we owe to the bee, and the silkworm, and the coral insect, with others of the same class-we are very apt to underrate them even as regards the pleasure and gratification they afford us. The utter absence of insect life is one of the most striking characteristics of our Northern American winters. Let us suppose for a moment that something of the same kind were to mark one single summer of our lives-that the hum of the bee, the drone of the beetle, the chirrup of cricket, locust, and katydid, the noiseless flight of gnat, moth, and butterfly, and the flash of the firefly, were suddenly to cease from the days and nights of June-suppose a magic sleep to fall upon them all; let their tiny but wonderful forms vanish from their usual haunts; let their ceaseless, cheery chant of day and night be hushed, should we not be oppressed with the strange stillness? Should we not look wistfully about for more than one familiar creature? The gardens and the meadows would in very sooth scarce seem themselves without this lesser world of insect life, moving in busy, gay, unobtrusive variety among the plants they love; and we may well believe that we should gladly welcome back the lowliest of the beetles, and the most humble of the moths which have so often crossed our path. MUIOPOTMOS; OR, THE FATE OF THE BUTTERFLIE. DEDICATED TO THE MOST FAIRE AND VERTUOUS LADIE, THE LADIE CAREY. I sing of deadly dolorous debate, Stir'd up through wrathfull Nemesis despight, Betwixt two mightie ones of great estate, Drawne into armes, and proofe of mortall fight, The roote whereof and tragicall effect, Of all the race of silver-winged Flies |