And when among my native fields I wandered in the

sun,

I felt as if my morn of life had only just begun.

The fragrance from the blossomed hedge that came on every breeze ; ·

The white cot peeping from the grove, its blue smoke in the sky

The rural group of ruddy boys that gaily loitered

The lonely lake, where brightly shone the fisher's sun-lit sail;

Awhile these seemed illusions brief of beauty and delight,

A dear but transitory dream a mockery of the night!

For often in my slumbering hours on India's sultry

strand,

In visions scarce less palpable I hailed my native

land.

I clasped their thrilling hands in mine-re, its blue smoke

that gaily loitered

hill-the

rivule

htly shone the fishe

mbons brief of beauty

mockery

g hours on India's

alpable I hailed

my boys that gay

"Dr:nikled hill

Mere brightly shone the risk'

Dad,

tramp

lamp,

gh trellised vines

im shines :

re

it so fair.

small feet id sweet:

O see

elight the bee;
throstle sung
ed her young;
loe-thorn, where
ne timorous hare;
o'er with wild bluebells,

build their balmy cells;
tream, the shady pool,

ons brief of beautrap when the day is cool;

est that seems to be

the sheltering tree,

ama mooke marvels which my verse

India 10 language to rehearse.

the town! for thee, alas!

spreads no flowers nor grass,

206 THE TOWN CHILD AND THE COUNTRY CHILD.

But when upon my wildering doubts reflection flashed the truth,

Oh! never in my childhood years, nor in my fervid

youth,

So deep a rapture thrilled my breast, as while I gazed around,

And recognised the thousand charms that hallow English ground!

THE TOWN CHILD AND THE COUNTRY

CHILD.

BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

CHILD of the country! free as air
Art thou, and as the sunshine fair;
Born, like the lily, where the dew
Lies odorous when the day is new;
Fed 'mid the May-flowers like the bee,
Nursed to sweet music on the knee,
Lulled in the breast to that glad tune

Which winds make 'mong the woods in June;
't is sweet to sing

I sing of thee;

Of such a fair and gladsome thing.

THE TOWN CHILD AND THE COUNTRY CHILD. 207

Child of the town! for thee I sigh:
A gilded roof's thy golden sky,
A carpet is thy daisied sod,

A narrow street thy boundless road,
Thy rushing deer's the clattering tramp
Of watchmen, thy best light's a lamp,
Through smoke, and not through trellised vines
And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines :
I sing of thee in sadness; where
Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair.

Child of the country! thy small feet
Tread on strawberries red and sweet:
With thee I wander forth to see
The flowers which most delight the bee;
The bush o'er which the throstle sung
In April while she nursed her young;
The den beneath the sloe-thorn, where
She bred her twins the timorous hare;
The knoll, wrought o'er with wild bluebells,
Where brown bees build their balmy cells;
The greenwood stream, the shady pool,
Where trouts leap when the day is cool;
The shilfa's nest that seems to be
A portion of the sheltering tree,
And other marvels which my verse
Can find no language to rehearse.

Child of the town! for thee, alas!
Glad Nature spreads no flowers nor grass,