The gorse is yellow on the heath, The banks with speedwell flowers are gay, The oaks are budding, and, beneath, The welcome guest of settled Spring, Come, summer visitant, attach To my reed roof your nest of clay, And let my ear your music catch, Low twittering underneath the thatch At the grey dawn of day. C. Smith CLVIII - GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD grew in beauty side by side, ey fill'd one home with glee;— – graves are sever'd far and wide,— mount, and stream, and sea. same fond mother bent at night er each fair sleeping brow: had each folded flower in sight,— here are those dreamers now? midst the forests of the West, sea, the blue lone sea, hath one- sleeps where Southern vines are drest bove the noble slain : vrapt his colours round his breast, n a blood-red field of Spain. one-o'er her the myrtle showers leaves, by soft winds fann'd; faded midst Italian flowers, he last of that bright band. CLX THE LAST OF THE FLOCK I distant countries have I been, ad yet I have not often seen healthy man, a man full grown, eep in the public roads alone; ■t such a one, on English ground, nd in the broad highway I met; ong the broad highway he came, is cheeks with tears were wet; urdy he seem'd, though he was sad; nd in his arms a lamb he had. 2 e saw me, and he turn'd aside, s if he wish'd himself to hide : nd with his coat did then essay o wipe those briny tears away. follow'd him and said, 'My friend, What ails you! wherefore weep you so?' -'Shame on me, sir! this lusty lamb, He makes my tears to flow. 'o-day I fetch'd him from the rock; He is the last of all my flock. 3 When I was young, a single man, and after youthful follies ran, Though little given to care and thought, et so it was, an ewe I bought; |