Meek creatures! the first mercy of the earth, veiling with hushed softness its dintless rocks; creatures full of pity, covering with strange and tender honor the scarred disgrace of ruin, laying quiet fingers on the trembling stones, to teach them rest. No words, that I know of, will say what these mosses are. None are delicate enough, none perfect enough, none rich enough. How is one to tell of the rounded bosses of furred and beaming green- the starred divisions of rubied bloom, fine-filmed, as if the Rock Spirits could spin porphyry as we do glass- the traceries of intricate silver, and fringes of amber, lustrous, arborescent, burnished through every fibre into fitful brightness and glossy traverses of silken change, yet all subdued and pensive, and framed for simplest, sweetest offices of grace. They will not be gathered, like the flowers, for chaplet or love-token; but of these the wild bird will make its nest, and the wearied child his pillow.

us.

And, as the earth's first mercy, so they are its last gift to When all other service is vain, from plant and tree, the soft mosses and gray lichen take up their watch by the headstone. The woods, the blossoms, the gift-bearing grasses, have done their parts for a time, but these do service forever. Trees for the builder's yard, flowers for the bride's chamber, corn for the granary, moss for the grave.

Yet as in one sense the humblest, in another they are the most honored of the earth-children. Unfading, as motionless, the worm frets them not, and the autumn wastes not. Strong in lowliness, they neither blanch in heat nor pine in frost. To them, slow-fingered, constant-hearted, is entrusted the weaving of the dark, eternal, tapestries of the hills; to them, slow-penciled, iris-dyed, the tender fram. ing of their endless imagery. Sharing the stillness of the unimpassioned rock, they share also its endurance; and while the winds of departing spring scatter the white haw

thorn blossom like drifted snow, and summer dims on the parched meadow the drooping of its cowslip-gold,- far above, among the mountains, the silver lichen spots rest, starlike, on the stone, and the gathering orange-stain upon the edge of yonder western peak reflects the sunsets of a thousand years.

JOHN RUSKIN.

LAKE OTSEGO.

On all sides, wherever the eye turned, nothing met it but the mirror-like surface of the lake, the placid view of heaven, and the dense setting of woods. So rich and fleecy were the outlines of the forest, that scarce an opening could be seen the whole visible earth, from the rounded mountain-top to the water's edge, presenting one unvaried line of unbroken verdure. As if vegetation were not satisfied with a triumph so complete, the trees overhung the lake itself, shooting out towards the light; and there were miles along its eastern shore where a boat might have pulled beneath the branches of dark Rembrandt-looking hemlocks, quivering aspens, and melancholy pines. In a word, the hand of man had never yet defaced or deformed any part of this native scene, which lay bathed in the sunlight, a glorious picture of affluent forest grandeur, softened by the balmi. ness of June, and relieved by the beautiful variety afforded by the presence of so broad an expanse of water.

COOPER.

THE LOVELY SHELL.

See what a lovely shell,
Small and pure as a pearl,
Lying close to my foot,

Frail, but a work divine,
Made so fairily well

With delicate spire and whorl,
How exquisitely minute,
A miracle of design!

What is it? a learned man
Could give it a clumsy name.
Let him name it who can,
The beauty would be the same.

The tiny cell is forlorn,
Void of the little living will
That made it stir on the shore.
Did he stand at the diamond door
Of his house in a rainbow frill?
Did he push, when he was uncurl'd,
A golden foot or a fairy horn
Thro' his dim water-world?

TENNYSON.

ON THE ST. LAWRENCE RIVER.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime,

Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.

Soon as the woods on the shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.

Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past!

Why should we yet our sail unfurl?

There is not a breath the blue wave to curl!

But when the wind blows off the shore,

Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

Utawas' tide! this trembling moon

Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green Isle! hear our prayers.
Oh! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past!

NIGHT.

MOORE.

The sky is overcast

With a continuous cloud of texture close,
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,
Which through that veil is indistinctly seen,
A dull, contracted circle, yielding light
So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,
Checkering the ground- from rock, plant, tree or
Tower, at length a pleasant instantaneous gleam
Startles the pensive traveler while he treads
His lonesome path, with unobserving eye
Bent earthwards; he looks up-the clouds are split
Asunder:—and above his head he sees

The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss
Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,
Yet vanish not! the wind is in the tree,
But they are silent;- still they roll along
Immeasurably distant; and the vault,

Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
Still deepens its unfathomable depth.

At length the Vision closes; and the mind,
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, which
Slowly settles into peaceful calm. WORDSWORTH.

A COTTAGE.

I knew by the smoke, that so gracefully curled
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near;
And I said, If there's peace to be found in the world,

A heart that was humble might hope for it here!'

It was noon, and on flowers that languished around
In silence reposed the voluptuous bee;
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound

But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.

And Here in this lone little wood,' I exclaimed,

With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed,

How blest could I live, and how calm could I die!
MOORE.

THE FIRE-FLY.

This morning, when the earth and sky
Were burning with the blush of spring,
I saw thee not, thou humble fly!

Nor thought upon thy gleaming wing.

But now the skies have lost their hue,
And sunny lights no longer play,

I see thee, and I bless thee too

For sparkling o'er the dreary way.

Oh! let me hope that thus for me,

When life and love shall lose their bloom,
Some milder joys may come, like thee,

To light, if not to warm the gloom!

MOORE.