BY CHA&LOTTE SMITH

In every copse and shelterM dell, XJnveird to the observant eye,

Are faithful monitors who tell

How pass the hours and seasons by.

The green-robed children of the spring Will mark the periods as they pass,

Mingle with leaves Time's feather'd wing-,.

And bind with flowers his silent glass.

Mark where transparent waters glide, Soft flowing o'er their tranquil bed ;

There, cradled on the dimpling tide, Nymphaea rests her lovely head.

But conscious of the earliest beam, She rises from her humid nest.

And sees reflected in the stream The virgin whiteness of her breast,

Till the bright Daystar to the west Déclines, in Ocean's surge to lave ;

Then, folded in her modest vest, She slumbers on the rocking wave.

Oh ! béni soit le ciel qui de la tendre enfance

A voulu pour un temps éloigner la souffirance.

Pourquoi donc irions-nous, devançant le destin,-

De l'orage du soir effrayer le matin

Le lis au blanc plumage, orgueil de la vallée ?

Pourquoi faire incliner sa tête désolée ?

Ne se peut-il donc pas qu'au moment du danger

Quelqu'arbre bienfaisant lui prête son ombrage.

Ou que Celui qui soigna son jeune âge, Ne lui trouve un abri fait pour le protéger ?