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TO THE CRICKET.

BY THE REVEREND THOMAS COLE.

SPRIGHTLY Cricket, chirking still
Merry music, short and shrill;
In
my

kitchen take thy' rest
As a truly welcome guest;
For no evils shall betide
Those with whom thou dost reside.
Nor shall thy good-omen'd strain
E’er salute my ear in vain.
With the best I can invent
I'll requite the compliment;
Like thy sonnets, I'll repay
Little sonnets, quick and gay,

Thou, a harmless inmate deem'd,
And by housewives much esteem'd,
Wilt not pillage for thy diet,
Nor deprive us of our quiet;
Like the horrid rat voracious,
Or the lick'rish mouse sagacious;
Like the herd of vermin base,
Or the pilf’ring reptile race:
But content art thou to dwell
In thy chimney-corner cell ;
There, unseen, we hear thee greet
Safe and snug, thy native heat.
Thou art happier, happier far,
Than the happy grasshopper,
Who, by nature, doth partake
Something of thy voice and make ;
Skipping lightly o'er the grass,

minutes

pass;

As her sunny

LYRE.

F

98

TO THE CRICKET.

For a summer month or two
She can sing and sip the dew :
But at Christmas, as in May,
Thou art ever brisk and gay,
Thy continued song we hear,
Trilling, thrilling, all the year.

Every day and every night
Bring to thee the same delight;
Winter, summer, cold or hot,
Late or early, matters not;
Mirth and music still declare
Thou art ever void of care :
Whilst with sorrows and with fears,
We destroy our days and years;
Thou, with constant joy and song,
Ev'ry minute dost prolong,
Making thus thy little span
Longer than the age of Man.

SONG.

BY MISS LANDON.

Are other eyes beguiling, Love?
Are other rose-lips smiling, Love?
Ah, heed them not; you will not find
Lips more true, or eyes more kind,
Than mine, Love.

Are other white arms wreathing, Love? Are other fond sighs breathing, Love? Ah, heed them not; but call to mind The arms, the sighs, you leave behindAll thine, Love.

Then gaze not on other eyes, Love;
Breathe not other sighs, Love;
You may find many a brighter one
Than your own rose, but there are none
So true to thee, Love.

All thine own, 'mid gladness, Love;
Fonder still, ʼmid sadness, Love;
Though changed from all that now thou art,
In shame, in sorrow, still thy heart
Would be the world to me, Love.

RECOLLECTIONS.

I've pleasant thoughts, that memory brings, in

moments free from care, Of a fairy-like and laughing girl, with roses in her

hair; Her smile was like the starlight of summer's softest

skies, And worlds of joyousness there shone from out her

witching eyes.

Her looks were looks of melody, her voice was like

the swell Of sudden music, gentle notes, that of deep gladness

tell;

She came like spring, with pleasant sounds of

sweetness and of mirth, : And her thoughts were those wild, flowery thoughts,

that linger not on earth.

RECOLLECTIONS.

100 A quiet goodness beam'd amid the beauty of her face, And all she said and did was with its own instinctive

grace ; She seem'd as if she thought the world a good and

pleasant one, And her light spirit saw no ill, in aught beneath the

sun.

I've dream'd of just such creatures, but they never

met my view 'Mid the sober, dull reality, in their earthly form and

hue, And her smile came gently over me, like spring's

first scented airs, And made me think life was not all a wilderness of

cares.

I know not of her destiny, or where her smile now

strays, But the thought of her comes o'er me, with my own

lost sunny days, With moonlight hours, and far off friends, and many

pleasant things That have gone the way of all the earth, on Time's

resistless wings.

THE UNKNOWN GRAVE.

BY D. M. MOIR.

Man comes into the world like morning mushrooms, soon thrusting up their heads into the air, and conversing with their kindred of the same production, and as soon they turn into dust and forgetfulness.- JEREMY TAYLOR.

Who sleeps below ?—who sleeps below ?

It is a question idle all !
Ask of the breezes as they blow,

Say, do they heed, or hear thy call ?
They murmur in the trees around,
And mock thy voice, an empty sound !

A hundred summer suns have shower'd

Their fostering warmth, and radiance bright; A hundred winter storms have lour'd

With piercing floods, and hues of night,
Since first this remnant of his race
Did tenant his lone dwelling-place.

Was he of high or low degree?

Did grandeur smile upon his lot?
Or, born to dark obscurity,

Dwelt he within some lonely cot,
And, from his youth to labour wed,
From toil-strung limbs wrung daily bread ?

Say, died he ripe, and full of years,

Bow'd down and bent by hoary eld, When sound was silence to his ears,

And the dim eyeball sight withheld;

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