They take the sickle from the wall Come, then, into the harvest fields; The corn stands yellow on the hills, And autumn stays not long. They'll carry the sheaves of corn away, Along the lane, with a rustling sound, MARY HOWITT. PROVIDENCE. EACH little mouse with eye so clear, He hath his little mother dear, Who keeps him warm and brings him bread, He doth nor cold nor hunger dread. No poor dear little bird we see In garden hop from tree to tree, But his warm feather clothes has got, There is no painted butterfly, No meanest worm 'neath summer sky, No creature in the world we find And who such care for all doth take? And careth night and day for me. FROM THE GERMAN. THE FROST. THE frost looked forth one still clear night, I will not go on like that blustering train, Then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest; He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest In diamond beads-and over the breast Of the quivering lake, he spread A coat of mail that need not fear He went to the window of those who slept, Most beautiful things-there were flowers and trees; There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; There were cities with temples, and towers and these All pictured in silver sheen! But he did one thing that was hardly fair; He peeped in at the cup-board, and finding there That all had forgotten for him to prepare, "Now just to set them a thinking, I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, "This costly pitcher I'll burst in three ; And this glass of water they've left for me, Shalltchiek' to tell them I'm drinking." GOULD. THE BIRD OF PASSAGE. SWEET wanderer! the gentle Spring Nay, tarry not! the primrose pale And the soft, balmy, southern gale The trees that were so dead and sere, Where art thou lingering? in some clime, Some dreamy clime of flowers; Where it is ever summer time, Amid the fragrant bowers? There, in some scented orange grove, Beneath a cloudless sky, How sweetly, wanderer, canst thou rove, And pour thy melody! Or, gliding o'er the crystal stream, |