False lights, that lead the soul to rove, Then vanish in an hour! Our earliest tear, and latest sigh, DIFFERENCES. By CHARLES MACKAY. THE king can drink the best of wine- And has enough when he would dine— And cannot order rain or shine- Then where's the difference-let me see- Do trusty friends surround his throne Or make his interest their own? Mine love me for myself alone- And that's one difference which I see Do knaves around me lie in wait Or fawn and flatter when they hate, Or cruel pomps oppress my state- No! Heaven be thank'd! And here you see He has his fools, with jests and quips, He has his armies and his ships Great are they; But not a child to kiss his lips, And that's a difference sad to see Betwixt my lord the king and me. I wear the cap and he the crown— I sleep on straw and he on down- And he's the king, and I'm the clown- If happy I, and wretched he, AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. By W. C. BRYANT. ALL day, from shrubs by our summer dwelling, The blue-bird chants, from elm's long branches, Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city, Though many a flower in the wood is waking, She pushes upward the sward already, No lays so joyous as these are warbled Yet these sweet lays of the early season, There is no glory in star or blossom Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows, THE WOOD THRUSH. By BARRY CORNWALL. WHITHER hath the Wood-thrush flown, Bid him come! for on his wings, Lover-like the creature waits, And when morning soareth, Toward the dawn he poureth. Sweet one, why art thou not heard Laughing thoughts,-delighting songs, 'Tis enough that thou should'st sing 'Tis enough that thou hast once THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. Translated from the German of MULLER, by LONGFELLOW. "THE rivers rush into the sea, "The clouds are passing far and high, And everything that can sing and fly "I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither, or whence, I see no longer a hill, sail; I have trusted all to the sounding gale, "And wilt thou, little bird, go with us? With merry companions all." "I need not and seek not company, "High over the sails, high over the mast, When the merry companions are still, at last, "Who neither may rest, nor listen may, I dart away, in the bright blue day, "Thus do I sing my weary song, And this same song, my whole life long, THE STEAMBOAT. By O. W. HOLMES, an American poet. SHE how yon flaming herald treads The morning spray, like sea-born flowers, In lurid fringes thrown, The living gems of ocean sweep Along her flashing zone. With clashing wheel, and lifting keel, And smoking torch on high, When winds are loud, and billows reel, She thunders foaming by; When seas are silent and serene, The sunshine glimmering through the green That skirts her gleaming sides. Now, like a wild nymph, far apart |