I bent the rushes to my feet, And sought the water's silent flow, I culled the violet in the dell, Whose wild-rose gave a chequered shade, So sweet by answering echo made. In God's own house, on God's own day, Thus Memory, from her treasured urn, And still my soul shall these command, "Awake, Psaltery and Harp; I myself will awake early.” Psalms.-ANONYMOUS. WAKE, when the mists of the blue mountains sleeping, When breathing from the south, o'er young buds sweeping, Rise like the glory of an Eden dream. Wake while unfettered thoughts, like treasures springing, As birds and brooks through the pure air are flinging Then, Psaltery, and Harp, a tone awaken, Wake then, too, man, when, from refreshing slumber, Thanks for life's golden gifts-a countless numberCalm dreams, and soaring hopes, and summer skies; Wake!-let thy heart's fine chords be touched in praise, For the free spirit of undying Grace! Isaiah xxxv.-BRAINARD. A ROSE shall bloom in the lonely place, And Lebanon's cedars shall rustle their boughs, O say to the fearful, Be strong of heart; To the trembling hand and the feeble knee The blind shall see, the deaf shall hear, The dumb shall raise their notes for Him, And the parched ground shall become a pool, There is a way, and a holy way, Where the unclean foot shall never tread, But from it the lowly shall not stray, No lion shall rouse him from his lair, The ransomed of God shall return to him On listening to a Cricket.-ANDREWS NORTON. I LOVE, thou little chirping thing, To hear thy melancholy noise; Though thou to Fancy's ear may sing Thou canst not now drink dew from flowers, But, through the winter's weary hours, And when my lamp's decaying beam Then will I listen to thy sound, Recall the many colored dreams, Perchance, observe the fitful light, And its faint flashes round the room, And think some pleasures, feebly bright, I love the quiet midnight hour, When Care, and Hope, and Passion sleep, I love the night: and sooth to say, Prefer the cricket's grating wing. But, see! pale Autumn strews her leaves, Her withered leaves, o'er Nature's grave, While giant Winter she perceives, Dark rushing from his icy cave; And in his train the sleety showers, Thou, cricket, through these weary hours, March.-BRYANT THE stormy March is come at last, I hear the rushing of the blast, That through the snowy valley flies. Ah! passing few are they who speak, For thou to northern lands again, The glad and glorious sun dost bring, And thou hast joined the gentle train, And, in thy reign of blast and storm, When the changed winds are soft and warm, Then sing aloud the gushing rills And the full springs, from frost set free," The year's departing beauty hides A look of kindly promise yet. Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, April.-LONGFELLOW. WHEN the warm sun, that brings. I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, The coming-in of storms. From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives: The softly-warbled song Comes through the pleasant woods, and colored wings Are glancing in the golden sun, along The forest openings. And when bright sunset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope throws |