And they bless the name
Of the miller's dame

In cots where the lowly mourn;
For want and woe

At her coming go,

And joy and peace return.

Fair is the miller's daughter too,
With her locks of golden hair,
With her laughing eye and sunny brow ;
Still better is she than fair.

She hath lighten'd toil
With her winning smile;
And if ever his heart is sad,
Let her sing the song

He hath loved so long,

And the miller's heart is glad.

Merrily rolls the mill-stream on, &c.

Colman.

THE OWL.

WHEN cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,

And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the hatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay :

Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

Tennyson.

SONG OF THE OWL.

TU-WHOO! Tu-whoo! In my ancient hall,
In my old gray turret high,

Where the ivy waves o'er the crumbling wall,
A king-a king reign I!

Tu-whoo!

I wake the woods with my startling call
To the frighted passer-by.

Let them joy in their brilliant sun-lit skies,
And their sunset hues, who may ;

But how softer far than the tints they prize
Is the dim of the twilight gray!

Tu-whoo!

Oh, a weary thing to an owlet's eyes
Is the garish light of day.

As the last lone ray from the hamlet fades
In the dark and still profound,

The night-bird sings in the cloister shades,
And the glow-worm lights the ground.
Tu-whoo!

And fairies trip o'er the broad green glades
To the fire-flies circling round.

Tu-whoo! Tu-whoo!-All the livelong night,
A right gladsome life lead we,

While the starry eyes from their jewell'd height Bend down approvingly.

Tu-whoo!

They may bask who will in the noonday light; But the midnight dark for me!

Mrs. Hewitt.

THE GATHERING OF THE BIRDS.

COME away! Come away !

Come away! Come away

!

Come hither my comrades of every feather,
Come hither all ye who in flocks fly together

Come ye who thrive best in the husbandman's fields
And feast on the grain that his good tillage yields :
Ye myriads of tribes that on barley-corns feed,
And swift-flying races that revel in seed,
Who fast as ye flit,

A soft warble emit:

And ye who in flocks seek the furrow
And caw with delight as ye burrow,
And soberly plod

O'er each mould'ring clod-
With a twit-twit-twitter, I carol my lay,
Come away from the fields, come away, come away!
Come ye who seek the marshy flats,
Intent to swallow stinging gnats;
Come bird of pied and painted wing;
Shy wildfowl, join our gathering;
And tribes that with the halcyons sweep
Along the billows of the deep-

Come hither, come, your courses change
To hear of something new and strange.
Tiraloo! Tiraloo!

Tu-whit! Tu-whoo!

Shirley (from Aristophanes).

YE SPOTTED SNAKES.

YE spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong,
Come not near our fairy Queen.
Philomel, with melody,

Sing in our sweet lullaby :
Never harm,

Nor spell nor charm,

Come our lovely lady nigh;

So good night, with lullaby.

Weaving spiders, come not here,

Hence, ye long-legged spinners, hence!

Beetles black, approach not near;

Worm and snail, do no offence.

Philomel, with melody,
Sing in your sweet lullaby :
Never harm,

Nor spell nor charm,

Come our lovely lady nigh;

So good night, with lullaby.

Shakspeare.

HARK! THE LARK.

HARK! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phœbus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs,
On chaliced flowers that lies.

And winking mary buds begin
To ope their golden eyes,

With every thing that pretty bin;
My lady sweet, arise.

Shakspeare.

HERE IN COOL GROT.

HERE in cool grot and mossy cell,
We rural fays and fairies dwell;
Though rarely seen by mortal eye,
When the pale moon, ascending high,

Darts through yon limes her quivering beams,
We frisk it near those crystal streams.

Her beams, reflected from the wave,
Afford the light our revels crave;
The turf, with daisies broidered o'er,
Exceeds, we wot, the Parian floor;
Nor yet for artful strains we call,
But listen to the waterfall.

Shakspeare.

BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND!

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind!
Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigho! sing heigho! unto the green holly;
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
Heigho the holly! the holly!

This life is most jolly, most jolly!
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky!
Thou dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remembered not.

Heigho! sing heigho! unto the green holly;
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
Heigho the holly! the holly!

This life is most jolly, most jolly!

Shakspeare.

(From "As You Like It." Song of Amiens, in the forest.)

SONG FOR SPRING.

Now gladsome Spring is coming,
And flowrets sweet are springing,
Fa, la, la, la, la, la!

While Nature shows her face,
Bedeck'd with every grace,
Fa, la, la, la, la, la!

The Spring, clad all in gladness,
Doth laugh at Winter's sadness,
Fa, la, la, la, la, la!

And many a blossom gay
Lies strewed along her way,
Fa, la, la, la, la, la !

* i.e., Forest life.

N