A HUMMING BEE a little tinkling rill- By each and all of these the pensive ear Was greeted, in the silence that ensued, When through the cottage threshold we had passed, And, deep within that lonesome valley, stood Once more beneath the concave of the blue And cloudless sky. THE OAK AND THE BROOM. A PASTORAL. His simple truths did Andrew glean A careful student he had been One winter's night, when through the trees This Tale the Shepherd told. "I saw a crag, a lofty stone As ever tempest beat! Out of its head an Oak had grown, A Broom out of its feet. The time was March, a cheerful noon The thaw-wind, with the breath of June, Breathed gently from the warm south-west : When, in a voice sedate with age, This Oak, a giant and a sage, His neighbour thus addressed: Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay, Along this mountain's edge, The frost hath wrought both night and day, Wedge driving after wedge. Look up! and think, above your head What trouble surely will be bred; Last night I heard a crash-'t is true, For such a thing as you! ༔ You are preparing, as before, To deck your slender shape; And yet just three years back-no more — Down from yon cliff a fragment broke ; This ponderous block was caught by me, 'Tis hanging to this day! The thing had better been asleep, Or breeze, or bird, or dog, or sheep, To come and slumber in your bower; Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon! Will perish in one hour. 6 From me this friendly warning take ’— The Broom began to doze, And thus, to keep herself awake, Did gently interpose : 'My thanks for your discourse are due; Disasters, do the best we can, Will reach both great and small; And he is oft the wisest man For me, why should I wish to roam? This spot is my paternal home, It is my pleasant heritage; My father, many a happy year, Here spread his careless blossoms, here Attained a good old age. Een such as his may be my lot. What cause have I to haunt My heart with terrors? Am I not On me such bounty Summer pours, This Plant can never die. 6 The butterfly, all green and gold, To me hath often flown, Here in my blossoms to behold When grass is chill with rain or dew, The love they to each other make, And the sweet joy which they partake, It is a joy to me.' "Her voice was blithe, her heart was light; The Broom might have pursued Her speech, until the stars of night Their journey had renewed : But in the branches of the Oak "One night, my Children! from the north There came a furious blast: At break of day I ventured forth, The storm had fall'n upon the Oak, And struck him with a mighty stroke, And whirled, and whirled him far away; And, in one hospitable cleft, The little careless Broom was left To live for many a day." THE TWO GRAVES. As, on a sunny bank, a tender lamb |