The feathery people clap their wings,
And lead their youngling train.
Perchance, the hoary grandsire's eye
The glowing scene surveys,

And breathes a blessing on his race
Or guides their evening praise.

The Harvest-Giver is their friend,
The Maker of the soil,

And Earth, the Mother, gives them bread
And cheers their patient toil.

Come, join them round their wintry hearth,

Their heartfelt pleasures see,

And you can better judge how blest

The farmer's life may be.

A COTTAGE SCENE.

I SAW a cradle at a cottage door,

Where the fair mother, with her cheerful wheel,

Carolled so sweet a song, that the

young bird,

Which, timid, near the threshold sought for seeds, Paused on its lifted foot, and raised its head,

As if to listen. The rejoicing bees

Nestled in throngs amid the wood-bine cups
That o'er the lattice clustered. A clear stream
Came leaping from its sylvan height, and poured
Music upon the pebbles, and the winds

Which gently 'mid the vernal branches played

Their idle freaks, brought showering blossoms down, Surfeiting earth with sweetness.

Sad I came

From weary commerce with the heartless world;

But when I felt upon my withered cheek
My mother Nature's breath, and heard the trump
Of those gay insects at their honied toil,
Shining like winged jewelry, and drank
The healthful odor of the flowering trees

And bright-eyed violets; but, most of all,
When I beheld mild slumbering innocence,
And on that young maternal brow the smile
Of those affections which do purify

And renovate the soul, I turned me back
In gladness, and with added strength, to run
My weary race-lifting a thankful prayer

To Him who showed me some bright tints of Heaven

Here on the earth, that I might safer walk

And firmer combat sin, and surer rise

From earth to Heaven.

ROSE TO THE DEAD.

I PLUCK'D a rose for thee, sweet friend,
Thy ever favorite flower,

A bud I long had nurs'd for thee,
Within my wintry bower;

I group'd it with the fragrant leaves
That on the myrtle grew,

And tied it with a silken string
Of soft cerulean blue.

I brought them all to thee, sweet friend,
And stood beside the chair,

Where sickness long thy step had chain'd,
But yet thou wert not there;

I turn'd me to thy curtain'd bed,
So fair with snowy lawn,

Methought the unpress'd pillow said
"Not here, but risen and gone."

Thy book of prayer lay open wide,
And 'mid its leaves were seen,

A flower with petals shrunk and dried,
Lost Summer's wither'd queen.

It was a flower I gave thee, friend,
Thou lov'dst it for my sake;
"See here a fresher one I bring,"
No lip in answer spake.

Then from the sofa's quiet side

I rais'd the covering rare,

"Sleepest thou?" upon the forehead lay Unstirr'd the auburn hair :

But when to leave my cherish'd gift,
That gentle hand I stole,

Its icy touch! its fearful chill,
Congeal'd my inmost soul.

Ah friend, dear friend! and can it be
Thy last sweet word is said?
That all too late my token comes,
To cheer the pulseless dead?
Here, on thy cold unheaving breast,
The promis'd Rose I lay,

The last, poor symbol of a love

That cannot fade away.

But thou, 'mid yon perennial bowers

Where angel footsteps roam,