SUNSHINE.

And when it shines in forest glades,
Hidden and green and cool,

Through mossy boughs and veined leaves,
How is it beautiful!

How beautiful on little streams,
Where sun and shade at play,
Make silvery meshes, while the brook
Goes singing on its way.

How beautiful, where dragon-flies
Are wondrous to behold,
With rainbow wings of gauzy pearl,
And bodies blue and gold!

How beautiful on harvest slopes,
To see the sunshine lie;
Or on the paler reaped fields,
Where yellow shocks stand high!

O yes! I love the sunshine:
Like kindness or like mirth
Upon a human countenance
Is sunshine on the earth!

Upon the earth, upon the sea,
And through the crystal air,

On piled-up cloud, the gracious sun
Is glorious everywhere!

93

MARY HOWITT.

94

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

MERRILY singing on brier and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:
Bob-o'-link, Bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Snug and safe in that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer-flowers;
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest,

Wearing a bright-black wedding-coat ;

White are his shoulders, and white his crest;
Hear him call in his merry note,

Bob-o'-link, Bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink ;

Look what a nice new coat is mine,

Sure there was never a bird so fine;
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,

Passing at home a patient life,

Broods in the grass while her husband sings,

Bob-o'-link, Bob-o'-link;

Brood, kind creature, you need not fear

Thieves and robbers while I am here;

Chee, chee, chee.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

Modest and shy as a nun is she;
One weak chirp is her only note;
Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he,
Pouring boasts from his little throat--
Never was I afraid of man,

Catch me cowardly knaves, if you can.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay,
Freckled with purple, a pretty sight!
There as the mother sits all day,

Robert is singing with all his might,
Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell,

Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. This new life is likely to be

Hard for a young fellow like me.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made

Sober with work, and silent with care;

Off is his holiday garment laid

Half forgotten that merry air, —

Nobody knows but my mate and I

Where our nest and our nestlings lie.

95

96

THE WIND.

Robert of Lincoln 's a humdrum crone ;

Off he flies, and we sing as he goes,-
When you can pipe in that merry old strain,
Robert of Lincoln come back again.

W. C. BRYANT.

THANKFULNESS.

WHEN thou hast truly thanked thy God

For every blessing sent,

But little time will then remain

For murmur or lament.

THE WIND.

WHAT way does the wind come? what way does he go? He rides over the water, and over the snow;

Through wood, and through vale, and o'er rocky height, Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight; He tosses about in every bare tree,

As, if you look up, you plainly may see;

But how he will come, and whither he goes,
There's never a scholar in England knows.

He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,

And rings a sharp 'larum ;— but, if you should look, There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow,

THE WIND.

Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were covered with silk.
Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;

97

-Yet seek him, and what shall you find in the place?
Nothing but silence and empty space;

Save in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,
That he's left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves!

As soon as 't is daylight, to-morrow with me,
You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see
That he has been there, and made a great rout
And cracked the branches, and strewn them about;
Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig
That looked up at the sky so proud and big
All last summer, as well you know,
Studded with apples, a beautiful show!

Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
And growls as if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle
Drive them down, like men in a battle :

-But let him range round; he does us no harm,
We build up the fire, we're snug and warm;
Untouched by his breath, see the candle shines bright,
And burns with a clear and steady light;

Books have we to read, but that half stifled knell,
Alas! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell.

Come, now we'll to bed! and when we are there
He may work his own will, and what shall we care?