The thaw-wind, with the breath of June,
Breathed gently from the warm south-west:
When, in a voice sedate with age,
This Oak, a giant and a sage,

His neighbour thus addressed :

"Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay, Along this mountain's edge,

The Frost hath wrought both night and day,
Wedge driving after wedge.

Look up! and think, above your head
What trouble, surely, will be bred :
Last night I heard a crash-'tis true,
The splinters took another road-
I see them yonder-what a load
For such a Thing as you!

"From me this friendly warning take ".
The Broom began to doze,

And thus, to keep herself awake,
Did gently interpose :

"My thanks for your discourse are due ;
That more than what you say is true
I know, and I have known it long;
Frail is the bond by which we hold
Our being, whether young or old,
Wise, foolish, weak, or strong.

"" 'Disasters, do the best we can,
Will reach both great and small;
And he is oft the wisest man

Who is not wise at all.

For me, why should I wish to roam?

This spot is my paternal home,

It is my pleasant heritage;

My father many a happy year

Spread here his careless blossoms, here
Attained a good old age.

"Even such as his may be my lot.
What cause have I to haunt

My heart with terrors? Am I not
In truth a favoured plant?

On me such bounty summer pours,
That I am covered o'er with flowers;
And, when the frost is in the sky,
My branches are so fresh and gay
That you might look at me and say,
This plant can never die."

One night, my Children! from the north There came a furious blast ;

At break of day I ventured forth,

And near the cliff I passed.

The storm had fallen upon the Oak,

And struck him with a mighty stroke,

And whirled, and whirled him far away;

And, in one hospitable cleft,

The little careless Broom was left

To live for many a day.

TO PRIMROSES

FILLED WITH MORNING DEW.

WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears
Speak grief in you,

Who were but born

Just as the modest morn

Teemed her refreshing dew?
Alas! you have not known that shower
That mars a flower,

Nor felt the unkind

Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worn with years,
Or warped as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,

Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

Herrick.

THE PRIMROSE.-WISHING.

RING-TING! I wish I were a Primrose,
A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the spring!

The stooping boughs above me,
The wandering bee to love me,
The fern and moss to creep across,
And the Elm-tree for our king!

Nay-stay! I wish I were an Elm-tree,
A great, lofty Elm-tree! with green leaves gay!
The winds would set them dancing,

The sun and moonshine glance in,
The birds would house among the boughs,
And sweetly sing.