THE TOWN CHILD AND THE COUNTRY CHILD.

air

HILD of the country, free as The dew beneath the sloe-thorn where
She bred her twins, the timorous hare,
The knoll wrought o'er with wild bluebells
Where brown bees build their balmy cells,

Art thou, and as the sun-
shine fair;

Born like the lily, where The greenwood stream, the shady pool,
the dew
Where trouts leap when the day is cool.
Lies odorous when the day The shilfa's nest, that seems to be
A portion of the sheltering tree,
And other marvels which my verse
Can find no language to rehearse.

is new;

Fed 'mid the May-flowers

like the bee,

Nursed to sweet music on

the knee,

Lulled in the breast to that sweet tune

Child of the town, for thee, alas!
Glad Nature spreads nor flowers nor grass;
Birds build no nests, nor in the sun

Which winds make 'mong the woods of June. Glad streams come singing as they run;

I sing of thee: 'tis sweet to sing
Of such a fair and gladsome thing.

Child of the town, for thee I sigh:
A gilded roof's thy golden sky;
A carpet is thy daisied sod;
A narrow street thy boundless wood;
Thy rushing deer's the clattering tramp
Of watchmen; thy best light's a lamp;
Through smoke, and not through trellised

vines

And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines.
I sing of thee in sadness: where

Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair?

Child of the country, thy small feet
Tread on strawberries red and sweet;
With thee I wander forth to see
The flowers which most delight the bee,
The bush o'er which the throstle sung
In April while she nursed her young,

A Maypole is thy blossomed tree,
A beetle is thy murmuring bee;
Thy bird is caged, thy dove is where
The poulterer dwells, beside the hare;
Thy fruit is plucked, and by the pound
Hawked, clamorous, o'er the city round;
No roses twin-born on the stalk
Perfume thee in thy evening walk;
No voice of birds, but to thee comes
The mingled din of cars and drums,
And startling cries, such as are rife
When wine and wassail waken strife.

Child of the country, on the lawn
I see thee like the bounding fawn,
Blithe as the bird which tries its wing
The first time on the wings of Spring,
Bright as the sun when from the cloud
He comes as cocks are crowing loud;
Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams,
Now groping trouts in lucid streams,

And lockt men's looks within her golden Hath from the cunning workman's pencil flown

Seeming to move and speak. Alas! now I Neither to be so great as to be envied,

Nothing of her but this! This cannot speak; Love is much in winning, yet is more in It has no lap for me to rest upon,

No lip worth tasting. Here the worms will Love is ever sick, and yet is never dying;

But cannot shield the tempest from them- Thou prayest God to hasten to thine aid;

Thy deathless soul will cherish it on high. Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene

OW fair is the rose! what a beautiful Say, canst thou face the flaky snaw,