Think how ye prospered, thou and thine, Amid the unviolated grove, Housed near the growing primrose tuft In foresight, or in love.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

ON A FAVORITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLDFISHES.

'Twas on a lofty vase's side Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow, Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared: The fair, round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,-- She saw, and purred applause.

Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue, Through richest purple, to the view Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first, and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretched, in vain, to reach the prize,-- What female heart can gold despise?

What cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent, Again she stretched, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between,-- Malignant Fate sat by and smiled,-- The slippery verge her feet beguiled; She tumbled headlong in!

Eight times emerging from the flood, She mewed to every watery G.o.d Some speedy aid to send: No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred, Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard,-- A favorite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived, Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold: Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts is lawful prize, Nor all that glitters gold!

THOMAS GRAY.

THE SOLITARY REAPER.

Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland La.s.s!

Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pa.s.s!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travelers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands; A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard, In springtime from the cuckoo bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?-- Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;-- I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

CORONACH.

He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest.

The fount reappearing From the raindrops shall borrow; But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are h.o.a.ry, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory.

The autumn winds, rushing, Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in c.u.mber, Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber!

Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and forever.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

LIFE'S "GOOD-MORNING."

Life! we have been long together, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather.

'Tis hard to part when friends are dear; Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not "Good-night," but in some brighter clime Bid me "Good-morning."

ANNA LEt.i.tIA BARBAULD.

MOONRISE.

The moon is up, and yet it is not night-- Sunset divides the sky with her--a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free From clouds, but of all colors seems to be-- Melted to one vast Iris of the West, Where the Day joins the past Eternity; While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air--an island of the blest.

A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still Yon sunny lea heaves brightly, and remains Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill, As Day and Night contending were, until Nature reclaim'd her order:--gently flows The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instill The odorous purple of a new-born rose, Which streams upon her stream, and gla.s.sed within it glows.

LORD GEORGE NOEL GORDON BYRON.

_From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."_

[Ill.u.s.tration]

TO A WATERFOWL.

Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?