The Youths Coronal | Page 8

thou thy kite,
I hold my jewel, new and bright,
Lest he
should stray without a guide,
To drown my hopes in sorrow's tide!"
=A Summer-Morning Rumble=
Oh! the happy Summer hours.
With their butterflies and flowers,


And the birds among the bowers
Sweetly singing;--
With the spices from the trees,
Vines, and lilies,
while the bees
Come floating on the breeze,
Honey bringing!
All the East was rosy red,
When we woke and left our bed;
And to
gather flowers we sped,
Gay and early.
Every clover-top was wet,
And the spider's silken
net
With a thousand dew-drops set,
Pure and pearly.
With their modest eyes of blue
Were the violets peeping through

Tufts of grasses, where they grew,
Full of beauty,
At the lamb in snowy white,
O'er the meadow
bounding light,
And the crow just taking flight,
Grave and sooty.
On our floral search intent,
Still away, away we went,--
Up and
down the rugged bent,--
Through the wicket,--
Where the rock with water drops,--
Through
the bushes and the copse,--
Where the greenwood pathway stops
In the thicket.
We heard the fountain gush,
And the singing of the thrush;
And we
saw the squirrel's brush
In the hedges,
As along his back 't was thrown,
Like a glory of his
own.
While the sun behind it, shone

Through its edges.
All the world appeared so fair,
And so fresh and free the air,--
Oh!
it seemed that all the care
In creation
Belonged to God alone;
And that none beneath his
throne,
Need to murmur or to groan
At his station.
Dear little brother Will!
He has leaped the hedge and rill,--
He has
clambered up the hill,
Ere the beaming
Of the rising sun, to sweep
With its golden rays
the steep,
Till he's tired, and dropped asleep,
Sweetly dreaming.
See, he threw aside his cap,
And the roses from his lap,
When his
eyes were, for the nap,
Slowly closing:
Wit his sunny curls outspread,
On its fragrant
mossy bed,
Now his precious infant head
Is reposing.
He is dreaming of his play--
How he rose at break of day,
And he
frolicked all the way
On his ramble.
And before his fancy's eye,
He has still the butterfly

Mocking him, where not so high
He could scramble.
In his cheek the dimples dip,
And a smile is on his lip,
While his
tender finger-tip

Seems as aiming
At some wild and lovely thing
That is out upon
the wing,
Which he longs to catch and bring
Home for taming.
While he thus at rest is laid
In the old oak's quiet shade,
Let's cull
our flowers to braid,
Or unite them
In bunches trim and neat,
That for every friend we
meet,
We may have a token sweet
To delight them.
'Tis the very crowning art
Of a happy, grateful heart
To others to
impart
Of its pleasure.
Thus its joys can never cease,
For it brings an
inward peace,
Like an every day increase
Of a treasure.
=The Shoemaker=
"Honor and shame from no condition rise.
Act well your part:--there
all the honor lies."
The shoemaker sat amid wax and leather,
With lapstone over his knee;

Where, snug in his shop, he defied all weather,
A-drawing his
quarters and sole together:
A happy old man was he!
This happy old man was so wise and knowing,
The worth of his time
he knew.
He bristled his ends, and he kept them going;
And felt to
each moment a stitch was owing,
Until he got round the shoe.
Of every deed that his wax was sealing,
The closing was firm and fast.

The prick of his steel never caused a feeling
Of pain to the toe, and

his skill in heeling
Was perfect, and true to the last!
Whenever you gave him a foot to measure.
With gentle and skilful
hand,
He took its proportions, with looks of pleasure,
As if you
were giving the costliest treasure,
Or dubbing him lord of the land.
And many a one did he save from getting
A fever, or cold or cough:

For many a sole did he save from wetting,
When, whether in water
or snow 'twas setting,
His shoeing would keep them off
And when he had done with his making and mending,
With hope and
a peaceful breast,
Resigning his awl, as his thread was ending,
He
slid from his bench, to the grave descending,
As high as a king to
rest!
=The Snow-Storm=
It snows! it snows! from out the sky
The feathered flakes, how fast
they fly,
Like little birds, that don't know why
They're on the chase,
from place to place,
While neither can the other trace!
It snows, it
snows! a merry play
Is o'er us, on this sombre day.
As dancers in time's airy hall,
That not a moment holds them all,

While some keep up, and others fall,
The atoms shift; then, thick and
swift,
They drive along to form the drift,
That weaving up, so
dazzling white,
Is rising like a wall of light.
But now the wind comes, whistling loud,
To snatch and waft it, as a
cloud,
Or giant phantom in a shroud.
It spreads,--it curls,--it mounts
and whirls;
At length a mighty wing unfurls;
And then, away!--but
where, none knows,
Or ever will.--It snows! it snows!
To-morrow will the storm be done;
Then out will come the golden
sun!
And we shall, we shall