How some are kept in old, dear books, So, while these truths you vaguely guess, EDGAR FAWCETT. THE CRICKETS. PIPE, little minstrels of the waning year, In gentle concert pipe ! Pipe the warm noons; the mellow harvest near; The apples dropping ripe; The tempered sunshine, and the softened shade; The trill of lonely bird; The sweet, sad hush on Nature's gladness laid; Pipe tenderly the passing of the year; The dry husk rustling round the yellow ear; Pipe the untroubled trouble of the year; Pipe low the painless pain; Pipe your unceasing melancholy cheer; The year is on the wane. HARRIET MCEWEN KIMBALL. THE PHOEBE-BIRD. YES, I was wrong about the phoebe-bird, Strength from the other, making one more brave, But thus it is. Two songs have men and maidens: altered, If, at some time, the gayer note has faltered, TO THE DANDELION. DEAR common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold! Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold- Which not the rich earth's ample round May match in wealth-thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas; Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease. 'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand; Though most hearts never understand Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; The eyes thou givest me Are in the heart, and heed not space or time; Not in mid June the golden-cuirass'd bee Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment His conquer'd Sybaris, than I, when first Then think I of deep shadows on the grass- The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways— That from the distance sparkle through move. My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee; The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, Beside the door, sang clearly all day long ; With news from heaven, which he did bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears, When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. How like a prodigal doth Nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart, Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, And with a child's undoubting wisdom look JAMES RUSSELL Lowell. THE SANDPIPER. ACROSS the narrow beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I; And fast I gather bit by bit, The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry. Above our heads the sullen clouds I see the close-reefed vessels fly, I watch him as he skims along Or flash of fluttering drapery; |