cloud was sailing by,
With silver fringes, o'er the sky;
And then I thought, it seemed so nigh,
I'd make my kite go up and light
Upon its edge, so soft and bright;
To see how noble, high and proud
She'd look, while riding on a cloud!

"As near her shining mark she drew
I clapped my hands; the line slipped through
My silly fingers; and she flew,
Away! away! in airy play,
Right over where the water lay!
She veered and fluttered, swung and gave
A plunge, then vanished with the wave!

"I never more shall want to look
On that false cloud, or babbling brook;
Nor e'er to feel the breeze that took
My dearest joy, to thus destroy
The pastime of your happy boy.
My kite! my kite! how sad to think
She flew so high, so soon to sink!"

"Be this," the mother said, and smiled,
"A lesson to thee, simple child!
And when by fancies vain and wild,
As that which cost the kite that's lost,
The busy brain again is crossed,
Of shining vapor then beware,
Nor trust thy joys to fickle air.

"I have a darling treasure, too,
That sometimes would, by slipping through
My guardian hands, the way pursue,
From which, more tight than thou thy kite,
I hold my jewel, new and bright,
Lest he should stray without a guide,
To drown my hopes in sorrow's tide!"

=A Summer-Morning Rumble=

Oh! the happy Summer hours.
With their butterflies and flowers,
And the birds among the bowers
Sweetly singing;--
With the spices from the trees,
Vines, and lilies, while the bees
Come floating on the breeze,
Honey bringing!

All the East was rosy red,
When we woke and left our bed;
And to gather flowers we sped,
Gay and early.
Every clover-top was wet,
And the spider's silken net
With a thousand dew-drops set,
Pure and pearly.

With their modest eyes of blue
Were the violets peeping through
Tufts of grasses, where they grew,
Full of beauty,
At the lamb in snowy white,
O'er the meadow bounding light,
And the crow just taking flight,
Grave and sooty.

On our floral search intent,
Still away, away we went,--
Up and down the rugged bent,--
Through the wicket,--
Where the rock with water drops,--
Through the bushes and the copse,--
Where the greenwood pathway stops
In the thicket.

We heard the fountain gush,
And the singing of the thrush;
And we saw the squirrel's brush
In the hedges,
As along his back 't was thrown,
Like a glory of his own.
While the sun behind it, shone
Through its ed