Yet even these, though feigning sickness oft

They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb,
And vex their flesh with artificial sores,

Can change their whine into a mirthful note,

When safe occasion offers; and with dance

And music of the bladder and the bag,

Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound.

Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy

The houseless rovers of the sylvan world;

And, breathing wholesome air, and wandering much,
Need other physic none to heal the effects

Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold.

W. Cowper.

FLOW, river, flow!

ANGLING.

Where the alders grow;

Where the mosses rest

On the bank's high breast;

Flow on, and make sweet music ever,

Thou joyous and beloved river.

Such peace upon the landscape broods,

There is such beauty in the woods;

Such notes of joy come from the copse,

And from the swinging oak-tree tops;

There are such sounds of life, and health, and pleasure

Abroad upon the breeze,

And on the river rippling at sweet leisure,

Beneath its banks of fringing trees,—

That to my mind a thought of death or pain
Seems a discordant note in heavenly strain.

Death is the rule of life: the hawk in air
Pursues the swallow for his daily fare;

The blackbird and the linnet rove

On a death-errand through the grove;
The happy slug and glowworm pale,
Must die to feed the nightingale;

The mighty lion hunts his destined prey;
And the small insect, fluttering on our way,

Devours the tinier tribes that live unseen
In shady nooks and populous forests green;
The hungry fish, in seas and rivers,
Are death-receivers and death-givers;
And animalculæ conceal'd from sight,

In littleness sublime and infinite,

That whirl in drops of water from the fen-
Creatures as quarrelsome as men-

Or float in air upon invisible wings,
Devour the countless hosts of smaller things.
But simple is the law which they obey-
They never torture when they slay,
Unconquerable need, the law of life,
Impels the fiercest to the fatal strife:

They feel no joy in stopping meaner breath,
Tis man alone that makes a sport of death.

Where the pine-tree rears its crest,
And the stock-dove builds her nest,
Where the wild-flower odours float,
And the lark with gushing throat
Pours out her rapturous strains
To all hills and plains;
And if, amid the stream,

The lurking angler dream,

Of hooking fishes with his treacherous flies,
Reflect, oh river, the unclouded skies,
And bear no windy ripple on thy breast,-
The cloud and ripple he loves best,-

So that the innocent fish may see,
And shun their biped enemy.

Flow, river, flow,

Where the violets grow,

Where the bank is steep,

And the mosses sleep,

And the green trees nod to thy waves below:

Flow on and make sweet music ever,

Thou joyous and beloved river!

C. Mackay.

THE DESOLATE VILLAGE.

I WALKED by mysel' ower the sweet braes o' Yarrow,
When the earth wi' the gowans o' July was drest;
But the sang o' the bonny burn sounded like sorrow,
Round ilka house cauld as a last simmer's nest.

I look'd through the lift o' the blue smiling morning,
But never ae wee cloud o' mist could I see

On its way up to heaven, the cottage adorning,

Hanging white ower the green o' its sheltering tree.