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THE WAY-SIDE SPRING.

Fair dweller by the dusty way,

Bright saint within a mossy shrine,
The tribute of a heart to-day,
Weary and worn, is thine.

The earliest blossoms of the year,
The sweet-brier and the violet,
The pious hand of spring has here
Upon thy altar set.

And not alone to thee is given

The homage of the pilgrim's knee; But oft the sweetest birds of heaven Glide down and sing to thee.

Here daily from his beechen cell,
The hermit squirrel steals to drink,
And flocks which cluster to their bell,
Recline along thy brink.

And here the wagoner blocks his wheels,
To quaff the cool and generous boon;
Here from the sultry harvest fields

The reapers rest at noon.

And oft the beggar masked with tan,

In rusty garments gray with dust, Here sits and dips his little can,

And breaks his scanty crust.

And lulled beside thy whispering stream,
Oft drops to slumber unawares,

And sees the angel of his dream
Upon celestial stairs.

Dear dweller by the dusty way,

Thou saint within a mossy shrine, The tribute of a heart to day,

Weary and worn, is thine!

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

GULLS.

Pleasant it was to view the sea-gulls strive
Against the storm, or in the ocean dive,
With eager scream, or when they dropping gave
Their closing wings to sail upon the wave;
Then as the winds and waters raged around,

And breaking billows mix'd their deafening sound,
They on the rolling deep securely hung,
And calmly rode the restless waves among.
Nor pleas'd it less around me to behold,
Far up the beach the yesty sea-foam roll'd;

Or from the shore upborne, to see on high
Its frothy flakes in wild confusion fly;

While the salt spray, that clashing billows form,
Gave to the taste a feeling of the storm.

GEORGE CRABBE, 1754–1832.

THE FOUNTAIN.

Into the sunshine,

Full of light,

Leaping and flashing,
From morn till night.

Into the moonlight,

Whiter than snow,
Waving so flower-like,

When the winds blow!

Into the starlight,

Rushing in spray,
Happy at midnight-

Happy by day!

Ever in motion,

Blithesome and cheery,

Still climbing heavenward,

Never aweary ;

Glad of all weathers,

Still seeming best,
Upward or downward,

Motion thy rest;

Full of a nature

Nothing can tame,

Changed every moment-
Ever the same;

Ceaseless aspiring,

Ceaseless content,

Darkness or sunshine,

Thy element;

Glorious fountain!

Let my heart be
Fresh, changeful, constant

Upward, like thee!

J. R. LOWELL.

Fairies.

HEY inhabit the interior of green hills, chiefly those of

"THEY

a conical form, on which they lead their dances by moonlight, impressing upon the surface the marks of circles, which sometimes appear yellow and blasted, sometimes of a deepgreen hue, and within which it is dangerous to sleep or to be found after sunset.

"They are heard sedulously hammering in linns, precipices, and rocky or cavernous situations, where, like the dwarfs of the mines, mentioned by Georg. Agricola, they busy themselves in imitating the actions and the various employments. of men. The brook of Beaumont, for example, which passes in its course by numerous linns and caverns, is notorious for being haunted by the Fairies; and the perforated and rounded stones, which are formed by trituration in its channel, are termed, by the vulgar, fairy-cups and dishes. A beautiful rea

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