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A CARELESS, SIMPLE BIRD.

BY THEODOEB S. FAY.

A Caeeless, simple bird, one day

Flutt'ring in Flora's bowers, Fell in a cruel trap, which lay

All hid among the flowers,

Forsooth, the pretty, harmless flowers.

The spring was closed; poor, silly soul,

He knew not what to do,
Till, squeezing through a tiny hole,

At length away he flew,

Unhurt—at length away he flew.

And now from every fond regret

And idle anguish free,
He, singing, says, " You need not set

Another trap for me,

False girl! another trap for me."

CANZONET.

BY J. B. VANSCHAICK.

When motes, that dancing

In golden wine,
To the eyes' glancing

Speak while they shine—
Then, the draught pouring,

Love's fountain free, Mute, but adoring,

I drink to thee.

When sleep enchaineth,

Sense steals away— Dream, o'er mind reigneth

With dark strange sway— One sweet face floateth

Sleep's misty sea,
Th' unconscious heart doateth

On thee—on thee.
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THE MAIDEN SAT AT HER BUSY WHEEL.

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

"La ro«e cueillie et le cceur gagni no plaisent qu'un jour."

The maiden sat at her busy wheel

Her heart was light and free,
And ever in cheerful song broke forth

Her bosom's harmless glee.
Her song was in mockery of love

And oft I heard her say,
"The gathered rose, and the stolen heart,

Can charm but for a day."

I looked on the maiden's rosy cheek,

And her Up so full and bright,
And I sighed to think that the traitor Love,

Should conquer a heart so light:
But she thought not of future days of wo,

While she carolled in tones so gay;
"The gathered rose, and the stolen heart,

Can charm but for a day."

A year passed on, and again I stood

By the humble cottage-door;
The maid sat at her busy wheel,

But her look was blithe no more:

The big tear stood in her downcast eye,
And with sighs I heard her say, •

"The gathered rose, and the stolen heart,
Can charm but for a day."

Oh! well I knew what had dimmed her eye,

And made her cheek so pale;
The maid had forgotten her early song,

While she listened to love's soft tale.
She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup;

It had wasted her life away:
And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose,

Had charmed but for a day.

SONG OF THE HERMIT TKOUT.

BY WILLIAM P. HAWES.

Down in the deep

Dark holes I keep,
And there in the noontide I float and sleep.

By the hemlock log,

And the springing bog,
And the arching alders, I lie incog.

The angler's fly
Comes dancing by,
But never a moment it cheats my eye;

For the hermit trout
Is not such a lout
As to be by a wading boy pulled out.

King of the brook,

No fisher's hook
Fills me with dread of the sweaty cook;

But here I lie,

And laugh as they try;
Shall I bite at their bait? No, no; not I!

But when the streams,

With moonlight beams, Sparkle all silver, and starlight gleams,

Then, then look out

For the hermit trout; For he springs and dimples the shallows about, While the tired angler dreams

A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE.

BY EPES SARGENT.

A Life on the ocean wave!

A home on the rolling deep!
Where scattered waters rave,

And the winds their revels keep!

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