A WISH. S. ROGERS. Mine be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe mine ear; The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet gown and apron blue. The village-church among the trees, Where first our marriage vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven. LINES WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING. W. WORDSWORTH. How richly glows the water's breast While facing thus the crimson west, The boat her silent course pursues! And see how dark the backward stream! A little moment past so smiling! And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, Some other loiterers beguiling. Such views the youthful bard allure; He deems their colors shall endure Till peace go with him to the tomb. And let him nurse his fond deceit, And what if he must die in sorrow! Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, Though grief and pain may come to-morrow! WHO WILL CARE. Who will care? When we lay beneath the daisies, Who will care? Who will care? Who will come to weep above us, Full of beauty, rich and sweet, And the world is clad in splendor That the years shall e'er repeat— Who will care? Who will care? Who will think of white hands lying WHO WILL CARE-NIGHT AND DEATH. Never more to know of sighing, Evermore to know of rest? Who will care? No one can tell us, NIGHT AND DEATH. J. BLANCO WHITE. 269 Mysterious night! when our first parent knew This glorius canopy of light and blue? Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, And lo! creation widened in man's view. Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind? THE BABY. No shoes to hide her tiny toes, Her simple dress of sprinkled pink, Her puckered lip and balmy mouth, Her eyes so like her mother's eyes, Her face is like an angel's face— She is the budding of our love, A gift God gave to us; We must not love the gift o'er well, "Twould be no blessing thus. -Changed from the Scotch. |