Have I derived from thy sweet power
Some apprehension;

Some steady love; some brief delight;
Some memory that had taken flight;
Some chime of fancy wrong or right;
Or stray invention.

If stately passions in me burn,
And one chance look to thee should turn,
I drink out of an humbler urn
A lowlier pleasure;

The homely sympathy that heeds
The common life our nature breeds;
A wisdom fitted to the needs
Of hearts at leisure,

When smitten by the morning ray,
I see thee rise, alert and gay,
Then, cheerful flower! my spirits play
With kindred gladness:

And when, at dusk, by dews opprest.
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest
Hath often eased my pensive breast
Of careful sadness.

And all day long I number yet,
All seasons through, another debt,
Which I, wherever thou art met,
To thee am owing;

An instinct call it, a blind sense;
A happy, genial influence,

Coming one knows not how, nor whence,
Nor whither going.

Child of the Year! that round dost run
Thy course, bold lover of the Sun,
And cheerful when the day 's begun
As morning leveret,

Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;
Dear thou shalt be to future men
As in old time;-thou not in vain,
Art Nature's favourite.

THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE.

66 BEGONE, thou fond presumptuous elf,”
Exclaimed a thundering voice,

"Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self
Between me and my choice!"

A small cascade fresh swoln with snows
Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose,
That, all bespattered with his foam,
And dancing high and dancing low,
Was living, as a child might know,
In an unhappy home.

"Dost thou presume my course to block;
Off, off! or, puny thing!

I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock
To which thy fibres cling."

The flood was tyrannous and strong;
The patient Briar suffered long,

Nor did he utter groan or sigh,

Hoping the danger would be past:

But, seeing no relief, at last

He ventured to reply.

"Ah!" said the Briar, "blame me not;

Why should we dwell in strife?

We who in this sequestered spot,

Once lived a happy life!

You stirred me on my rocky bed

What pleasure through my veins you spread!

The Summer long, from day to day,

My leaves you freshened and bedewed;

Nor was it common gratitude

That did your cares repay.

When Spring came on with bud and bell,

Among these rocks did I

Before you hang my wreaths, to tell
That gentle days were nigh!

And, in the sultry summer hours,

I sheltered you with leaves and flowers;
And, in my leaves-now shed and gone,
The Linnet lodged, and for us two
Chaunted his pretty songs, when you
Had little voice or none.

But now proud thoughts are in your breastWhat grief is mine you see.

Ah! would you think, even yet how blest

Together we might be!

Though of both leaf and flower bereft,

Some ornaments to me are left-
Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,
With which I, in my humble way,
Would deck you many a winter's day,
A happy Eglantine!"

What more he said I cannot tell.
The torrent thundered down the dell
With unabating haste;

I listened, nor aught else could hear;
The Briar quaked-and much-1 fear
Those accents were his last.

THE FOUNTAIN ;- A CONVERSATION.

We talked with open heart, and tongue
Affectionate and true,

A pair of friends, though I was young,
And Matthew seventy-two.

We lay beneath a spreading oak,
Beside a mossy seat;

And from the turf a fountain broke,

And gurgled at our feet.

"Now, Matthew!" said I, "let us match

This water's pleasant tune

With some old border-song, or catch,
That suits a summer's noon.

Or of the church-clock and the chimes
Sing here beneath the shade,
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
Which you last April made!"

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
The spring beneath the tree;
And thus the dear old man replied,
The gray-haired man of glee:

"Down to the vale this water steers,
How merrily it goes!

"T will murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows.

And here, upon this delightful day,
I cannot choose but think

How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
Beside this fountain's brink.

My eyes are dim with childish tears,

My heart is idly stirred,

For the same sound is in my ears
Which in those days I heard.

Thus fares it still in our decay:
And yet the wiser mind

Mourns less for what age takes away
Than what it leaves behind.

The Blackbird in the summer trees,

The Lark upon the hill,

Let loose their carols when they please, Are quiet when they will.

With Nature never do they wage

A foolish strife; they see

A happy youth, and their old age
Is beautiful and free:

But we are pressed by heavy laws;
And often, glad no more,

We wear a face of joy, because
We have been glad of yore.

If there is one who need bemoan

His kindred laid in earth,

The household hearts that were his own,

It is the man of mirth.

My days, my friend, are almost gone,

My life has been approved,

And many love me; but by none

Am I enough beloved."

"Now both himself and me he wrongs,

The man who thus complains!

I live and sing my idle songs

Upon these happy plains,

And, Matthew, for thy children dead
I'll be a son to thee !"

At this he grasped my hand, and said,
"Alas! that cannot be."

We rose up from the fountain-side;
And down the smooth descent

Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
And through the wood we went;

And, ere we came to Leonard's rock,
He sang those witty rhymes
About the crazy old church clock,
And the bewildered chimes.

MERRY CHRISTMAS. TO HIS BROTHER.

THE Minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage eaves;
While, smitten by a lofty moon,

The encircling Laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.

Through hill and valley every breeze
Had sunk to rest with folded wings:
Keen was the air, but could not freeze
Nor check the music of the strings;
So stout and hardy were the band
That scraped the chords with strenuous hand.

And who but listened ?-till was paid
Respect to every inmate's claim;
The greeting given, the music played,
In honor of each household name,
Duly pronounced with lusty call,
And "Merry Christmas" wished to all!

O Brother! I revere the choice:
That took thee from thy native hills;
And it is given thee to rejoice;
Though public care full often tills
(Heaven only witness of the toil)
A barren and ungrateful soil.

Yet, would that thou, with me and mine,
Hadst heard this never-failing rite;
And seen on other faces shine

A true revival of the light,

Which nature and these rustic powers,
In simple childhood, spread through ours!-

For pleasure hath not ceased to wait
On these expected annual rounds,
Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate
Call forth the unelaborate sounds,
Or they are offered at the door
That guards the lowliest of the poor.

How touching, when, at midnight, sweep
Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark,
To hear and sink again to sleep!
Or at an earlier call, to mark,
By blazing fire, the still suspense
Of self-complacent innocence;