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BEAUTIES OF THE COUNTRY.

THERE 's many a green and lovely spot

Embosom'd in the silent hills,
And many a woodbine-trellis'd cot

By which the wild bird sweetly trills,
Where Quiet sleeps, and Care is calm,
And all the air is breathing balm.

And there the sound of village-bells

In silvery music floats along,
Now lingering o'er the shady dells,

Now mingling with the river's song,
As near at hand they seem to play,
Or in the distance die away.

And there are sounds within the woods,

And music in the waving flowers,
And babbling tongues in foamy floods,

And dreamy tones in falling showers ;-
In everything we hear and see
A deep, a thrilling oratry.

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Oh deem not that the forest-glen,

With all its silent trees, is dreary : The bittern booming from the fen,

The sedgy marsh, the mountain weary, The piny peaks, and caverns rude, Possess a holy solitude.

The May-pole on the village-green,

With many a gaudy garland hung ; The happy faces that are seen,

The merry shouts of old and young, Are sights and sounds that still declare Earth is not fill'd alone with care.

How happy, too, the angler's life,

Who sits on flowery banks all day,
And hears no.sound of pain or strife,

But calmly dreams his life away
In converse with the bards and sages,
Or reading good old Walton's pages !

How sweet on autumn eves to roam,

When the trees wear the rainbow's dye; To hear the shout of harvest-home

Floating along the silent sky;
Then at some turning to behold
The wain move by like bundled gold !

BEAUTIES OF THE COUNTRY.

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The hunter on the lonely moor,

Amid the fern and bracken brown, Who underneath the hawthorn hoar

In the still solitude sits down, And gazes from his forest throne, Seems living in the world alone.

Or wending by the woodland's side,

You hear the distant laughter sound,
And see some snowy kirtle glide,

Or happy group sit on the ground :
All merry, noisy nutters they,
Who through the tangling forest stray.

The loud song of the rural swain,

Or clap of some old creaking gate,
Or ploughboy whistling in the lane

As home he is returning late,
What time the sheeted wild-rose blows, .
Are sounds that bring the heart repose.

For who loves not the shady trees,

The smell of flowers, the sound of brooks,
The song of birds, and hum of bees

Murm'ring in green and fragrant nooks ;
The voice of children, in the spring,
Along the field-paths wandering ?

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