How delicate thy gauzy frill! How rich thy branchy stem! How soft thy voice when woods are still, And 'mid the general hush A sweet air lifts the little bough, The primrose to the grave is gone; weary head ; Hath laid her In all their beauteous power The fresh green days of life's fair spring, Scorned bramble of the brake! once more To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, In freedom and in joy. - · Ebenezer Elliott. JACK IN THE PULPIT. JACK in the pulpit Preaches to-day, Under the green trees Just over the way. Squirrel and song-sparrow Ringing to church. Buttercups' faces Beaming and bright; Clovers, with bonnets Some red and some white; Daisies, their white fingers Half-clasped in prayer; Dandelions, proud of The gold of their hair; Innocents, children Guileless and frail, Meek little faces Upturned and pale ; Wild-wood geraniums, All in their best, Languidly leaning In purple gauze dressed: All are assembled This sweet Sabbath-day To hear what the priest In his pulpit will say. Look! white Indian pipes The mischief is stopped, Have their little pipes dropped So much for the preacher : The sermon comes next, Shall we tell how he preached it, And where was his text? Grown up folks who play We heard not a word! Down in a green and shady bed Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, And yet it was a lovely flower, |