THE SONG OF THE GRASS. 79 WHAT I WOULD BE. I WOULD not be an eagle fierce, I would not be a moping owl, And pouncing on the mice at night, No I would be a lark, and mount From the daisy-spangled sod, With twinkling wings to Heaven's gate, SONGS FROM THE GERMAN. THE SONG OF THE GRASS. HERE I come, creeping, creeping everywhere : By the dusty road-side, On the sunny hill-side, Close by the noisy brook, In every shady nook, I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 80 THE SONG OF THE GRASS. Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere: All around the open door, Where sit the aged poor, There where the children play, In the bright and merry May, I come creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere: My pleasant face you'll meet, Toiling his busy part, Silently creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere : Nor hear my low sweet humming, For in the starry night, And the glad morning light, I come quietly, creeping everywhere. Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere: In summer's pleasant hours. The gentle cow is glad, And the merry bird not sad To see me creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere: BIRDS. In the happy Spring I'll come, Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere: Most gratefully I raise To Him at whose command I beautify the land, Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. JOHN S. DWIGHT. BIRDS. O, THE sunny summer time! When the year is in its prime! Dashing in the rainbow spray; Light and lovely there are they! Building in each hoary tree; 81 On the moor and in the fen, There the joyous bird is seen; All among the mountain thyme; Where the sparkling waters chime; Wheeleth through the breezy air, In a troubleless delight! In the green and leafy wood, Where the branching ferns up-curl, Soon as is the dawning, Wakes the mavis and the merle; Wakes the cuckoo on the bough; O, the sunny summer-time! O, the leafy summer-time! When the year is in its prime! SUMMER WOODS. Some are strong and some are weak; Whate'er loves it has delight SUMMER WOODS. COME ye into the summer woods; All greenly wave the chestnut leaves, I cannot tell you half the sights There, lightly swung, in bowery glades, There blooms the rose-red campion, And the dark-red columbine. MARY HOWITT. 8883 |