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LUCY.

THY favourite bird is soaring still:
My Lucy, haste thee o'er the dale;
The stream's let loose, and from the mill,
All silent comes the balmy gale;
Yet, so lightly on its way,
Seems to whisper, "Holiday."

The pathway flowers that bending meet,
And give the meads their yellow hue,
The may-bush and the meadow-sweet
Reserve their fragrance all for
Why then, Lucy, why delay ?
Let us share the Holiday.

you.

Since there thy smiles, my charming maid,
Are with unfeigned rapture seen,

To beauty be the homage paid;

Come, claim the triumph of the Green.
Here's my hand, come, come away;
Share the merry Holiday.

A promise too my Lucy made,

(And shall my heart its claim resign?)
That ere May-flowers again should fade,
Her heart and hand should both be mine.
Hark'ye, Lucy, this is May;
Love shall crown our Holiday.

WOODLAND HALLO.

IN our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood,

I am mistress, no mother have I;

Yet blithe are my days, for my father is good,

And kind is my lover hard by ;

They both work together beneath the green shade,

Both woodmen, my father and Joe;

Where I've listen'd whole hours to the echo that made So much of a laugh or-Hallo.

From my basket at noon they expect their supply, And with joy from my threshold I spring;

For the woodlands I love, and the oaks waving high, And echo that sings as I sing.

Though deep shades delight me, yet love is my food, As I call the dear name of my Joe;

His musical shout is the pride of the wood,

And my heart leaps to hear the-Hallo.

Simple flowers of the grove, little birds live at ease,
I wish not to wander from you;

I'll still dwell beneath the deep roar of your trees,
For I know that my Joe will be true.
The trill of the robin, the coo of the dove,
Are charms that I'll never forego;

But resting through life on the bosom of love,
Will remember the Woodland Hallo.

LOVE OF THE COUNTRY.

WELCOME silence! welcome peace!
O most welcome, holy shade!
Thus I prove, as years increase,

My heart and soul for quiet made.

Thus I fix my firm belief

While rapture's gushing tears descend,
That every flower and every leaf

Is moral Truth's unerring friend.

I would not for a world of gold

That Nature's lovely face should tire;
Fountain of blessings yet untold;

Pure source of intellectual fire!

Fancy's fair buds, the germs of song,

Unquicken'd midst the world's rude strife,

Shall sweet retirement render strong,

And morning silence bring to life.

Then tell me not that I shall grow
Forlorn, that fields and woods will cloy;
From Nature and her changes flow
An everlasting tide of joy.

I grant that summer heats will burn,
That keen will come the frosty night;
But both shall please: and each in turn
Yield reason's most supreme delight.

Build me a shrine, and I could kneel
To rural gods, or prostrate fall;
Did I not see, did I not feel,

That one GREAT SPIRIT governs all.
O Heaven permit that I may lie

Where o'er my corse green branches wave;

And those who from life's tumult fly

With kindred feelings press my grave.

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17. THE JOY OF CHILDHOOD.

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H. P. Briggs, R.A.

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Sir T. Lawrence, P.R.A.

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E. H. Baily, R.A.

S. Prout.

R. Hatfield.

W. J. Cooke.

J. Thomson.

W. Miller.

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