EARTH. WHAT is it that's cover'd so richly with green, A thousand plants bloom on its bosom serene, Hidden deep in its bowels the emerald shines, And silver and gold glitter bright in the mines Large quarries of granite and marble are spread Chalk, gravel, and coals; salt, sulphur, and lead; And thousands of beautiful stones. Beasts, savage and tame, of all colours and forms, Either stalk in the deserts, or creep; White bears sit and growl to the northerly storms, And shaggy goats bound from the steep. The oak and the snow-drop, the cedar, and rose, The tall fir of Norway, surrounded with snows, Fine grass and rich mosses creep over its hills, And when this poor body is cold and decay'd, A. T. WATER. WHAT is that glitters so clear and serene, Ships skimming along on its surface are seen.- Sea-weeds wind about in its cavities wet, A thousand fair shells, yellow, amber, and jet, Whales lash the white foam in their frolicsome wrath, And shoals of green mackerel stretch from the north, And wander along by our shores. ! When tempests sweep over its bosom serene, The ships now appear to be buried between, It gushes out clear from the sides of a hill, The trav❜ller, that crosses the desert so wide, Hot, weary, and stifled with dust, The stately white swan glides along on its breast, And the duckling unfledg'd waddles out of its nest, The clouds, blown about in the chilly blue sky, Like snowy-white feathers in winter they fly, When sun-beams so bright on the falling drops shine, And glows in the heavens, a beautiful sign, That water shall drown us no more. A. T. THE PIEDMONTESE AND HIS MARMOT. FROM my dear, native moorlands, for many a day, The bottom they cover'd with moss and with hay, But the warbling of April awak'd them again, Το crop the young plants and to frisk on the plain. Then I caught this poor fellow and taught him to dance, And we liv'd by his tricks as we rambled through France; But he droops, and grows drowsy, as onward we roam, And he and his master both pine for their home. Let your charity then hasten back to his cot The poor Piedmontese with his harmless marmot. LUCY AIKIN. TO A HEDGE-SPARROW. ·· LITTLE flutt'rer! swiftly flying, Here is none to harm thee near ; One who would protect thee ever, He no weasel, stealing slyly, May no cuckoo, wandering near thee, Little flutt'rer! swiftly flying, Here is none to harm thee near; Kite, nor hawk, nor school-boy prying; Little flutt'rer! cease to fear. ANTHOLOGY. |