Volume Ii Part 27 (1/2)

Cowering among his pillows white He prays, his blue eyes dim with fright, ”Father, save those at sea to-night!”-- _Miserere Domine._

The morning shone all clear and gay, On a s.h.i.+p at anchor in the bay, And on a little child at play,-- _Gloria tibi Domine!_

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

REST.

Rest is not quitting The busy career; Rest is the fitting Of self to one's sphere:

'Tis the brook's motion, Clear without strife; Fleeting to ocean, After its life:

'Tis loving and serving The highest and best; 'Tis onward, unswerving, And this is true rest.

GOETHE.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE GRa.s.sHOPPER.

Happy insect! what can be In happiness compared to thee?

Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine!

Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill; 'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Nature's self thy Ganymede.

Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, Happier than the happiest king!

All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee, All that summer hours produce, Fertile made with early juice: Man for thee does sow and plow; Farmer he and landlord thou!

Thou dost innocently joy, Nor does thy luxury destroy.

The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he.

Thee, country minds with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripened year: Thee Phoebus loves and does inspire; Phoebus is himself thy sire.

To thee of all things upon earth, Life is no longer than thy mirth.

Happy insect! happy thou, Dost neither age nor winter know: But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, (Voluptuous and wise withal, Epicurean animal,) Sated with the summer feast Thou retir'st to endless rest.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

THE CRICKET.

Little inmate, full of mirth, Chirping on my kitchen hearth, Wheresoe'er be thine abode, Always harbinger of good, Pay me for thy warm retreat With a song more soft and sweet; In return thou shalt receive Such a strain as I can give.

Thus thy praise shall be expressed, Inoffensive, welcome guest!