THE SNOW-FLAKE.

row, if I fall, will it be my lot

"N To be cast in some low and lonely spot,

To melt and sink unseen or forgot?
And then will my course be ended?"
'Twas thus a feathery Snow-flake said,
As through the measureless space it strayed,
Or, as half by dalliance, half afraid,
It seemed in mid-air suspended.

"Oh, no," said the Earth, "thou shalt not lie,
Neglected and lone, on my lap to die,
Thou pure and delicate child of the sky,
For thou wilt be safe in my keeping;
But then I must give thee a lovelier form;
Thou'lt not be a part of the wintry storm,
But revive when the sunbeams are yellow and warm
And the flowers from my bosom are peeping.

"And then thou shalt have thy choice to be
Restored in the lily that decks the lea,
In the jessamine bloom, the anemone,

Or aught of thy spotless whiteness;
To melt, and be cast, in a glittering bead,

With the pearls that the night scatters over the mead
In the cup where the bee and the firefly feed,

Regaining thy dazzling brightness;

"To wake and be raised from thy transient sleep,
When Viola's mild blue eye shall weep,

In a tremulous tear, or a diamond leaf
In a drop from the unlocked fountain;

The Snow-Flake

Or, leaving the valley, the meadow, and heath,
The streamlet, the flowers, and all beneath,
To go and be wove in the silvery wreath
Encircling the brow of the mountain.

137

"Or wouldst thou return to a home in the skies, To shine in the iris I'll let thee arise,

And appear in the many and glorious dyes
A pencil of sunbeams is blending.

But true, fair thing, as my name is Earth,
I'll give thee a new and vernal birth,
When thou shalt recover thy primal worth,
And never regret descending."

"Then I will drop," said the trusting flake; "But bear it in mind that the choice I make Is not in the flowers nor dew to awake,

Nor the mist that shall pass with the morning: For, things of thyself, they expire with thee; But those that are lent from on high, like me, They rise and will live, from the dust set free, To the regions above returning.

"And if true to thy word, and just thou art,
Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart,
Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart,

And return to my native heaven;
For I would be placed in the beautiful bow,
From time to time, in thy sight to glow,
So thou mayest remember the flake of snow
By the promise that God hath given."

Hannah Flagg Gould.

A

THE PARROT.

PARROT, from the Spanish main,

Full young and early caged came o'er, With bright wings, to the bleak domain Of Mulla's shore.

To spicy groves where he had won
His plumage of resplendent hue,
His native fruits, and skies, and sun,
He bade adieu. ·

For these he changed the smoke of turf,
A heathery land and misty sky,
And turned on rocks and raging surf
His golden eye.

But petted in our climate cold,

He lived and chattered many a day:
Until with age, from green and gold
His wings grew gray.

At last when blind, and seeming dumb,
He scolded, laughed, and spoke no more,

A Spanish stranger chanced to come

To Mulla's shore;

He hailed the bird in Spanish speech,
The bird in Spanish speech replied;
Flapped round the cage with joyous screech,
Dropped down, and died.

Thomas Campbell.

The Ivy Green

139

THE IVY GREEN.

A dainty plant is the ivy green,

O, That creepeth o'er ruins old!

Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold.

The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim;

And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he!

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings.
To his friend, the huge oak-tree!
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,

And he joyously twines and hugs around
The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,
And nations scattered been;

But the stout old ivy shall never fade
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days
Shall fatten upon the past;

For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the ivy's food at last.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Charles Dickens.

THE BROOK.

COME from haunts of coot and hern,

II make a sudden sally,

And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,

For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
Any many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow

To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.