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The silver cloud on which she lay

Spring shook, and on the hawthorn spray
It fell, and made the buds of May.

31.-THE CHILD AND THE DEW-DROPS.

J. E. CARPENTER.

"O FATHER, dear father, why pass they away,
The dew-drops that sparkled at dawning of day-
That glitter'd like stars by the light of the moon,
Oh, why are those dew-drops dissolving so soon?
Does the sun, in his wrath, chase their brightness away,
As though nothing that's lovely might live for a day?
The moonlight has faded-the flowers still remain,
But the dew has dried out of their petals again."

"My child," said the father, "look up to the skies,
Behold yon bright rainbow-those beautiful dyes ;
There there are the dew-drops in glory reset,
'Mid the jewels of heaven they are glittering yet.
Then are we not taught, by each beautiful ray,

To mourn not earth's fair things though fleeting away?
For though youth of its brightness and beauty be riven,
All that withers on earth blooms more brightly in heaven."

Alas for the father!-how little knew he

The words he had spoken prophetic could be;

That the beautiful child,-the bright star of his day,
Was e'en then like the dew-drops-dissolving away.
Oh! sad was the father, when lo, in the skies
The rainbow again spread its beauteous dyes;
And then he remember'd the maxims he'd given,
And thought of his child and the dew-drops in heaven.

32. THE NIGHTINGALE'S NEST.

JOHN CLARE.

[John Clare, the Northamptonshire peasant-poet, was born at Helpstone, in 1793, and was the son of a poor agricultural labourer, who, in his latter days, became an inmate of the parish workhouse. By extra work as a plough-boy, John contrived to earn enough money to pay for such schooling as could be procured in a humble village, and, having learned to read the Bible, he saved enough to purchase a volume of Thomson's "Seasons." He shortly began to compose verses: they were shown from hand to hand, admired, and in 1820 his first efforts were published, with an account of the poet from the pen of the late Mr. Octavius Gilchrist. In 1817 Clare published another volume by subscription. The critics recognised in it the effusions of a thoughtful mind,

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relying on itself, and disdaining to paraphrase former poets. By the aid of the late Earl Fitzwilliam, Clare became possessed of an income of about 451. per annum, besides a cottage rent free. Shortly after his marriage in 1820, he became hopelessly, but harmlessly, insane, and he remained an inmate of the county asylum at Northampton until his death in 1864.]

Up this green woodland ride let's softly rove
And list the Nightingale; she dwells just here.
Hush! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear
The noise might drive her from her home of love;
For here I've heard her many a merry year,
At morn, at eve, nay, all the livelong day,
As though she lived on song. This very spot
Just where that old man's-beard all wildly trails
Rude arbours o'er the road, and stops the way;
And where the child its bluebell flowers hath got,
Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails;
There have I hunted like a very boy,

Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn,
To find her nest, and see her feed her young.
And vainly did I many hours employ:

All seemed as hidden as a thought unborn.

And where those crumpling fern-leaves ramp among
The hazel's under boughs, I've nestled down
And watched her while she sang; and her renown
Hath made me marvel that so famed a bird
Should have no better dress than russet brown.
Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy,
And feathers stand on end, as 'twere with joy,
And mouth wide open to release her heart
Of its out-sobbing songs. The happiest part
Of Summer's fame she shared, for so to me
Did happy fancies shapen her employ.
But if I touched a bush, or scarcely stirred,
All in a moment stopt. I watched in vain:
The timid bird had left the hazel bush,
And oft in distance hid to sing again.
Lost in a wilderness of listening leaves,
Rich ecstasy would pour its luscious strain,
Till envy spurred the emulating Thrush
To start less wild and scarce inferior songs;
For while of half the year Care him bereaves,
To damp the ardour of his speckled breast,
The Nightingale to Summer's life belongs,
And naked trees and Winter's nipping wrongs
Are strangers to her music and her rest.
Her joys are ever green, her world is wide!
Hark! there she is, as usual. Let's be hush;
For in this blackthorn clump, if rightly guessed,
Her curious house is hidden. Part aside
Those hazel branches in a gentle way,

And stoop right cautious 'neath the rustling boughs,
For we will have another search to-day,

And hunt this fern-strewn thorn-clump round and round,
And where this reeded wood-grass idly bows
We'll wade right through; it is a likely nook.
In such like spots, and often on the ground
They'll build where rude boys never think to look ;—
Ay, as I live! her secret nest is here

Upon this whitethorn stump! I've searched about
For hours in vain. There, put that bramble by,—
Nay, trample on its branches, and get near.
How subtle is the bird! She started out,
And raised a plaintive note of danger nigh
Ere we were past the brambles: and now, near
Her nest, she sudden stops, as choking fear,
That might betray her home. So even now
We'll leave it as we found it; safety's guard
Of pathless solitudes shall keep it still.
We will not plunder music of its dower,
Nor turn this spot of happiness to thrall,
For melody seems hid in every flower

That blossoms near thy home. These bluebells all
Seem bowing with the beautiful in song;

And gaping cuckoo-flower, with spotted leaves,
Seems blushing at the singing it has heard.
How curious is the nest! No other bird
Uses such loose materials, or weaves

Its dwelling in such spots! Dead oaken leaves
Are placed without, and velvet moss within.
And little scraps of grass, and scant and spare,
What hardly seem materials, down and hair;
For from men's haunts she nothing seems to win.
Snug lie her curious eggs, in number five,
Of deadened green, or rather olive-brown,
And the old prickly thorn-bush guards them well.
So here we'll leave them, still unknown to wrong,
As the old woodland's legacy of song.

33.-THE GOLDSMITH'S DAUGHTER.

JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND.

Uhland was born at Tübingen on the 26th of April, 1787, and ranks among the greatest of the poets of Germany. A lawyer by profession, and having taken part in the various political struggles which agitated the German people, he was known in "father-land" as a politician as well as a minstrel; but it is in the latter character that his reputation, which is world-wide, has been wafted abroad. His favourite material for writing was the legends and traditions of the nations of Western Europe, and these he invested with a strange weird charm by the fantastic power of his singular genius. Uhland's principal works

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are-"Ernest, Duke of Suabia," a tragedy; "Louis the Bavarian," a drama;
"Dramatic Poems;" "Walter of the Vogelweid," &c. His poems were first
published in a collected form in 1815, since when they have gone through many
editions. He was some time a member of the Würtemberg parliament, in
which he occasionally spoke.]

A GOLDSMITH stood where shone around
His pearls and diamonds clear;
"The brightest gem I ever found
Art thou, my pet, my Helena,
My little daughter dear!"

A dainty knight just then came in,
"Good day, my pretty maid:
Good day, my brave old goldsmith, too,
I need a rich set garland

My sweet bride's locks to braid."

Now when the finished garland shone,
And sparkled all so bright,

And Helen could be quite alone,
Upon her arm she hung it,
And saddened at the sight.

"Ah! happy, sure, the bride will be
Who wears this pretty toy:
Ah! if the dear knight would give me
A simple wreath of roses,

O, I should die for joy!"

Ere long the knight came in again,
And close the garland eyed:

"My good old goldsmith, make me, then,
A little ring of diamonds

For my sweet little bride."

And when the finished circlet shone

With precious diamonds bright,

And Helen could be quite alone,
She drew it on her finger
And saddened at the sight.

"Ah! happy, sure, the bride will be
Who wears this pretty toy,

Ah! if the dear knight would give me
A little lock of hair, only,

O, I should die for joy!"

Ere long the knight came in again,
And close the ringlet eyed:
"I see, my good old goldsmith, then,
Thou mak'st quite beautifully
The gifts for my sweet bride."

1

But that their fitness I may see,
Come, pretty maiden, now,
And let me try at once on thee
The jewels for my dearest,
For she is fair as thou."

'Twas early on a Sunday morn;
And so the maiden fair
Had put her very best dress on,
And decked herself for service,
With neat and comely care.

In pretty shame, with cheek on fire,
Before him did she stand:

He placed on her the golden tire,
The ringlet on her finger,

And pressed her little hand.

"My Helen sweet! my Helen dear!

The jest is over now;

What bride shall claim the pretty gear,

The jewelled gold-bright garland,
And little ring, but thou?

"With gold, and pearl, and precious gem,

Hast thou grown up to be

As, sweet! thou should'st have learnt from them-
The sharer of high honour,

In after days, with me.”

34. THE SICILIAN VESPERS.

J. G. WHITTIER.

[Mr. Whittier is an American poet of some standing; still living.]

SILENCE o'er sea and earth
With the veil of evening fell,

Till the convent tower sent deeply forth

The chime of its vesper bell.

One moment, and that solemn sound

Fell heavily on the ear;

But a sterner echo pass'd around;

Which the boldest shook to hear.

The startled monks throng'd up,
In the torchlight cold and dim;
And the priest let fall his incense cup,
And the virgin hush'd her hymn;

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