Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, For sportive youth to stray in;

For manhood to enjoy his strength;

And age to wear away in!

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss ;

It promises protection

To studious ease, and generous cares,
And every chaste affection!

How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wild-wood's fruits to gather,
And on my true-love's forehead plant

A crest of blooming heather!

And what if I enwreathed my own!

'T were no offence to reason;

The sober hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.

I see but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
A ray of fancy still survives—
Her sunshine plays upon thee!
Thy ever-youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure;

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
Accordant to the measure.

The vapours linger round the Heights,
They melt-and soon must vanish ;
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine-
Sad thought! which I would banish,

But that I know, where'er I go,

Thy genuine image, Yarrow!

Will dwell with me-to heighten joy,

And cheer my mind in sorrow.

A HUMMING BEE a little tinkling rill-
A pair of falcons wheeling on the wing,
In clamorous agitation, round the crest
Of a tall rock, their airy citadel—

By each and all of these the pensive ear

Was greeted, in the silence that ensued,

When through the cottage threshold we had passed,

And, deep within that lonesome valley, stood

Once more beneath the concave of the blue

And cloudless sky.

THE OAK AND THE BROOM.

A PASTORAL.

His simple truths did Andrew glean
Beside the babbling rills;

A careful student he had been

Among the woods and hills.

One winter's night, when through the trees
The wind was thundering, on his knees
His youngest born did Andrew hold:
And while the rest, a ruddy quire,
Were seated round their blazing fire,
This Tale the Shepherd told.

"I saw a crag, a lofty stone

As ever tempest beat!

Out of its head an Oak had grown,

A Broom out of its feet.

The time was March, a cheerful noon

The thaw-wind, with the breath of June, Breathed gently from the warm south-west : When, in a voice sedate with age,

This Oak, a giant and a sage,

His neighbour thus addressed:

'Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay,

Along this mountain's edge,

The frost hath wrought both night and day,

Wedge driving after wedge.

Look up and think, above your head

What trouble surely will be bred;

Last night I heard a crash—'t is true,
The splinters took another road—
I see them yonder-what a load
For such a thing as you!

You are preparing, as before, To deck your slender shape;

And yet just three years back-no more-
You had a strange escape:

Down from yon cliff a fragment broke;
It came, you know, with fire and smoke,
And hitherward it bent its way:
This ponderous block was caught by me,
And o'er your head, as you may see,
'Tis hanging to this day!

The thing had better been asleep,
Whatever thing it were,

Or breeze, or bird, or dog, or sheep,
That first did plant you there.
For you and your green twigs decoy
The little witless shepherd-boy

To come and slumber in your bower;

And, trust me, on some sultry noon,

Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!

Will perish in one hour.

'From me this friendly warning take '—

The Broom began to doze,

And thus, to keep herself awake

Did gently interpose :

'My thanks for your discourse are due;
That it is true, and more than true,
I know, and I have known it long;
Frail is the bond by which we hold
Our being, be we young or old,
Wise, foolish, weak, or strong.

'Disasters, do the best we can,

Will reach both great and small;
And he is oft the wisest man,

Who is not wise at all.

For me, why should I wish to roam?

This spot is my paternal home,

It is my pleasant heritage;

My father, many a happy year,

Here spread his careless blossoms, here
Attained a good old age.

'E'en such as his may be my lot.

What cause have I to haunt

My heart with terrors? Am I not
In truth a favoured plant?

On me such bounty Summer pours,
That I am covered o'er with flowers;
And, when the frost is in the sky,
My branches are so fresh and gay
That you might look at me and say,
This Plant can never die.

The butterfly, all green and gold,

To me hath often flown,

Here in my blossoms to behold
Wings lovely as his own.

When grass is chill with rain or dew,

Beneath my shade the mother-ewe

Lies with her infant lamb; I see

The love they to each other make,

And the sweet joy which they partake,

It is a joy to me.'

"Her voice was blithe, her heart was light;

The Broom might have pursued

Her speech, until the stars of night

Their journey had renewed: