And jog along thy destin'd way:
But when I glean the sultry fields,
When earth her yellow harvest yields,
Thou get'st a holiday.

Steady as truth, on either end
Thy daily task performing well,
Thou'rt Meditation's constant friend,
And strik'st the heart without a bell:
Come, lovely May!

Thy lengthen'd day

Shall gild once more my native plain;
Curl inward here, sweet Woodbine flower ;-
Companion of the lonely hour,

I'll turn thee up again.

ROSY HANNAH.

A SPRING, o'erhung with many a flower,
The grey sand dancing in its bed,
Embank'd beneath a hawthorn bower,
Sent forth its waters near my head:
A rosy lass approach'd my view;

I caught her blue eye's modest beam :
The stranger nodded "how d'ye do!"
And leap'd across the infant stream.
The water heedless pass'd away :

With me her glowing image stay'd: I strove, from that auspicious day,

To meet and bless the lovely maid. I met her where beneath our feet

Through downy moss the wild thyme grew; Nor moss elastic, flow'rs though sweet, Match'd Hannah's cheek of rosy hue.

I met her where the dark woods wave,
And shaded verdure skirts the plain;
And when the pale moon rising gave
New glories to her clouded train.
From her sweet cot upon the moor
Our plighted vows to heaven are flown;
Truth made me welcome at her door,

LUCY.

THY favourite bird is soaring still:
My Lucy, haste thee o'er the dale;
The stream's let loose, and from the mill,
All silent comes the balmy gale;
Yet, so lightly on its way,
Seems to whisper, "Holiday.”

The pathway flowers that bending meet,
And give the meads their yellow hue,
The may-bush and the meadow-sweet
Reserve their fragrance all for you.
Why then, Lucy, why delay?
Let us share the Holiday.

Since there thy smiles, my charming maid,
Are with unfeigned rapture seen,

To beauty be the homage paid;

Come, claim the triumph of the Green.
Here's my hand, come, come away;
Share the merry Holiday.

A promise too my Lucy made,

(And shall my heart its claim resign?)
That ere May-flowers again should fade,
Her heart and hand should both be mine.
Hark'ye, Lucy, this is May;
Love shall crown our Holiday.

WOODLAND HALLO.,

IN our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood,

I am mistress, no mother have I;

Yet blithe are my days, for my father is good,

And kind is my lover hard by ;

They both work together beneath the green shade,
Both woodmen, my father and Joe;

Where I've listen'd whole hours to the echo that made

From my basket at noon they expect their supply, And with joy from my threshold I spring;

For the woodlands I love, and the oaks waving high, And echo that sings as I sing.

Though deep shades delight me, yet love is my food,
As I call the dear name of my Joe;

His musical shout is the pride of the wood,
And my heart leaps to hear the-Hallo.

Simple flowers of the grove, little birds live at ease, I wish not to wander from you;

I'll still dwell beneath the deep roar of your trees,
For I know that my Joe will be true.

The trill of the robin, the coo of the dove,
Are charms that I'll never forego;

But resting through life on the bosom of love,
Will remember the Woodland Hallo.

LOVE OF THE COUNTRY.

WELCOME silence! welcome peace!
O most welcome, holy shade !

Thus I prove, as years increase,

My heart and soul for quiet made.
Thus I fix my firm belief

While rapture's gushing tears descend,

That every flower and every leaf

Is moral Truth's unerring friend.

I would not for a world of gold

That Nature's lovely face should tire ;
Fountain of blessings yet untold;

Pure source of intellectual fire!

Fancy's fair buds, the germs of song,

Unquicken'd midst the world's rude strife,

Shall sweet retirement render strong,

Then tell me not that I shall grow
Forlorn, that fields and woods will cloy;
From Nature and her changes flow
An everlasting tide of joy.

I grant that summer heats will burn,
That keen will come the frosty night;
But both shall please: and each in turn
Yield reason's most supreme delight.

Build me a shrine, and I could kneel
To rural gods, or prostrate fall;
Did I not see, did I not feel,

That one GREAT SPIRIT governs all.
O Heaven permit that I may lie

Where o'er my corse green branches wave;

And those who from life's tumult fly

With kindred feelings press my grave.