Their Thomas in Finland, And Russia far inland? The bird, that by some name or other If the Butterfly knew but his friend, Under the branches of the tree: In and out, he darts about; Can this be the bird, to man so good, That, after their bewildering, Covered with leaves the little children, What ailed thee, Robin, that thou couldst A beautiful creature, That is gentle by nature? Beneath the summer sky From flower to flower let him fly; "T is all that he wishes to do. The cheerer thou of our in-door sadness, pursue See Paradise Lost, Book XI., where Adam points out to Eve the ominous sign of the Eagle chasing "two Birds of gayest plume," and the gentle Hart and Hind pursued by their enemy. He is the friend of our summer gladness: XVI. SONG FOR THE SPINNING-WHEEL. 1806. FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE PAS TORAL VALES OF WESTMORELAND. SWIFTLY turn the murmuring wheel! Night has brought the welcome hour, Help, as if from faery power; Dewy night o'ershades the ground; Turn the swift wheel round and round! Now, beneath the starry sky, Couch the widely scattered sheep ; Ply the pleasant labor, ply! For the spindle, while they sleep, Runs with speed more smooth and fine, Short-lived likings may be bred 1612 XVII. HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS. "WHO but hails the sight with pleasure With great enterprise! But in man was ne'er such daring "Mark him, how his power he uses, Lays it by, at will resumes! Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses Clouds and utter glooms! There, he wheels in downward mazes; ANSWER. Stranger, 't is no act of courage But such mockery as the nations "Such it is; the aspiring creature A dull, helpless thing, Dry and withered, light and yellow; That to be the tempest's fellow! Wait, and you shall see how hollow Its endeavoring!" XVIII. ON SEEING A NEEDLE-CASE IN THE FORM OF A HARP. THE WORK OF E. M. S. FROWNS are on every Muse's face, A very Harp in all but size! Needles for strings in apt gradation! The unclassic profanation. Even her own needle, that subdued Arachne's rival spirit, Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood, Such honor could not merit. And this, too, from the Laureate's Child, A living lord of melody! How will her Sire be reconciled To the refined indignity? I spake, when whispered a low voice: "Bard! moderate your ire; |