There's wild azalea on the hill, and roses down the dell, And just one spray of lilac still abloom beside the well; The columbine adorns the rocks, the laurel buds grow pink, Along the stream white arums gleam, and violets bend to drink.

This is the song of the Yellowthroat, Fluttering gaily beside you; Hear how each voluble note Offers to guide you:

Which way, sir?

I say, sir, Let me teach you, I beseech you!

Are you wishing Jolly fishing?

This way, sir!

I'll teach you.

Then come, my friend, forget your foes, and leave your fears behind, And wander forth to try your luck, with cheerful, quiet mind; For be your fortune great or small, you'll take what G.o.d may give, And all the day your heart shall say, "'Tis luck enough to live."

This is the song the Brown Thrush flings, Out of his thicket of roses; Hark how it warbles and rings, Mark how it closes:

Luck, luck, What luck?

Good enough for me!

I'm alive, you see.

Sun shining, No repining; Never borrow Idle sorrow; Drop it!

Cover it up!

Hold your cup!

Joy will fill it, Don't spill it, Steady, be ready, Good luck!

HENRY VAN d.y.k.e.

[Footnote 13: _From "The Toiling of Felix." By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons._]

_The Angler's Invitation_

Come when the leaf comes, angle with me, Come when the bee hums over the lea, Come with the wild flowers-- Come with the wild showers-- Come when the singing bird calleth for thee!

Then to the stream side, gladly we'll hie, Where the grey trout glide silently by, Or in some still place Over the hill face Hurrying onward, drop the light fly.

Then, when the dew falls, homeward we'll speed To our own loved walls down on the mead, There, by the bright hearth, Holding our night mirth, We'll drink to sweet friendship in need and in deed.

THOMAS TOD STODDART.

_Skating_

And in the frosty season, when the sun Was set, and, visible, for many a mile, The cottage-windows through the twilight blazed, I heeded not the summons. Happy time It was indeed for all of us: for me It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud The village clock tolled six. I wheeled about, Proud and exulting, like an untired horse That cares not for its home.

All shod with steel, We hissed along the polished ice, in games Confederate, imitative of the chase And woodland pleasures,--the resounding horn, The pack loud bellowing, and the hunted hare.

So through the darkness and the cold we flew, And not a voice was idle.

With the din Meanwhile the precipices rang aloud.

The leafless trees and every icy crag Tinkled like iron; while the distant hills Into the tumult sent an alien sound Of melancholy, not unnoticed; while the stars Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west The orange sky of evening died away.

Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay; or sportively Glanced sideways, leaving the tumultuous throng, To cut across the reflex of a star,-- Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed Upon the gla.s.sy plain. And oftentimes, When we had given our bodies to the wind, And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still The rapid line of motion, then at once Have I, reclining back upon my heels, Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs Wheeled by me, even as if the earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round.

Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, Feebler and feebler; and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

_From "The Prelude._"

_Reading_

... We get no good By being ungenerous, even to a book, And calculating profits ... so much help By so much reading. It is rather when We gloriously forget ourselves and plunge Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound, Impa.s.sioned for its beauty and salt of truth-- 'Tis then we get the right good from a book.

ELIZABETH B. BROWNING.

_From "Aurora Leigh."_

_On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer_

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold; Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific--and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise-- Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

JOHN KEATS.

_Music's Silver Sound_

When griping grief the heart doth wound, And doleful dump the mind oppress, Then music, with her silver sound, With speedy help doth lend redress.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

_From "Romeo and Juliet."_

_The Power of Music_

For do but note a wild and wanton herd, Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud, Which is the hot condition of their blood; If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, Or any air of music touch their ears, You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze, By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones and floods; Since naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature.

The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus: Let no such man be trusted.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

_From "The Merchant of Venice."_

_Descend, Ye Nine_

Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing; The breathing instruments inspire, Wake into voice each silent string, And sweep the sounding lyre!

In a sadly pleasing strain, Let the warbling lute complain: Let the loud trumpet sound, Till the roofs all around The shrill echoes rebound; While in more lengthen'd notes and slow, The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.

Hark! the numbers soft and clear Gently steal upon the ear; Now louder, and yet louder rise, And fill with spreading sounds the skies; Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats; Till, by degrees, remote and small, The strains decay, And melt away, In a dying, dying fall.

By music, minds an equal temper know, Nor swell too high, nor sink too low.

If in the breast tumultuous joys arise, Music her soft, a.s.suasive voice applies; Or, when the soul is press'd with cares, Exalts her in enlivening airs.

Warriors she fires with animated sounds; Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds: Melancholy lifts her head, Morpheus rouses from his bed, Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes, Listening Envy drops her snakes; Intestine war no more our pa.s.sions wage, And giddy factions bear away their rage.