But I wish not for death, for my spirit is all resign'd, And the hope that stays with me gives peace to my aged mind.

My darling, my darling, God gave to my feeble age
A prop for my faint heart, a stay in my pilgrimage;
My darling, my darling, God takes back his gift again,
And my heart may be broken, but ne'er shall my will
complain.

THE SAILOR BOY'S DREAM.

IN slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay,

G. Griffin.

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. He dream'd of his home, of his dear native bowers, And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn; While memory each scene gaily covered with flowers, And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide,

And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ;Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. A father bends o'er him with looks of delight; His cheek is impearl'd with a mother's warm tear; And the lips of the boy in a love kiss unite

With those of a sister his bosom holds dear. The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast, Joy quickens his pulses, his hardships seem o'er ; And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest"O God! thou hast blest me; I ask for no more."

RECOLLECTIONS OF OUR BIRTHPLACE.
KNOW ye not that lovely river,
Know ye not that smiling river,
Whose gentle flood

By cliff and wood

With wildering sound goes winding ever?

Oh! often yet with feeling strong,
On that dear stream my memory ponders,
And still I prize its murm'ring song,

For by my childhood's home it wanders.
Know ye not, &c.

There's music in each wind that blows
Within our native valley breathing;
There's beauty in each flower that grows
Around our native woodland wreathing.
The memory of the brightest joys

In childhood's happy morn that found us, Is dearer than the richest toys

The present vainly sheds around us.

Know ye not, &c.

G. Griffin.

TO MY BROTHER.

WE are but two-the others sleep
Through death's untroubled night;
We are but two-oh, let us keep
The link that binds us bright!

We in one mother's arms were lock'd-
Long be her love repaid!

In the same cradle we were rock'd,
Round the same hearth we play'd,

Our boyish sports were all the same,
Each little joy and woe;

Let manhood keep alive the flame
Lit up so long ago.

We are but one-be that the bond

To hold us till we die;

Shoulder to shoulder let us stand,

Till side by side we lie.

Sprague.

EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE PEASANTS.

COME to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done.

The twilight star to heaven,
And the summer dew to flowers,
And rest to us is given,

By the cool soft evening hours.
Sweet is the hour of rest!

Pleasant the wind's low sigh,
And the gleaming of the west,
And the turf whereon we lie;
When the burden and the heat
Of labour's task are o'er,

And kindly voices greet

The tired one at his door.

Come to the sunset tree!

The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done.
Yes; tuneful is the sound

That dwells in whispering boughs;
Welcome the freshness round!

And the gale that fans our brows.

But rest more sweet and still
Than ever nightfall gave,
Our yearning hearts shall fill
In the world beyond the grave.
There shall no tempest blow,
No scorching noontide heat;
There shall be no more snow,
No weary wandering feet.
So we lift our trusting eyes
From the hills our fathers trod,

To the quiet of the skies,

To the haven of our God.

Come to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;

The woodman's axe lies free,

And the reaper's work is done.

Mrs. Hemans.

TO THE OLD FAMILY CLOCK SET UP IN A
NEW PLACE.

OLD things are come to honour. Well they might,
If old like thee, thou reverend monitor!
So gravely bright, so simply decorated,

Thy gold but faded into softer beauty,
While click and hammer-stroke are just the same
As when my cradle heard them. Thou hold'st on,
Unwearied, unremitting, constant ever;

The time that thou dost measure leaves no mark
Of age or sorrow on thy gleaming face;
The pulses of thy heart were never stronger,
And thy voice rings as clear as when it told me
How slowly crept the impatient days of childhood.
More than a hundred years of joys and troubles
Have pass'd and listen'd to thee, while thy tongue
Still told in its one round the unvaried tale ;-
The same to thee-to them how different,
As fears, regrets, or wishes gave it tone!

My mother's childish wonder gazed as mine did
On the raised figures of thy slender door ;-
The men or dames--Chinese, grotesquely human ;
The antler'd stag beneath its small, round window ;
The birds above, of scarce less size than he ;
The doubtful house; the tree unknown to nature.

I see thee not in the old-fashion'd room,
That first received thee from the mother-land;
But yet thou mind'st me of those ancient times
Of homely duties and of plain delights,

Whose love and mirth, and sadness sat before thee,—
Their laugh and sigh both over now, their voices
Sunk and forgotten, and their forms but dust.

Thou, for their sake, stand honour'd there awhile,-
Honour'd wherever standing,-ne'er to leave

The house that calls me master. When there's none

such,

I thus bequeath thee, as in trust, to those

Who shall bear up my name.

For each that hears

The music of thy bell strike on the hours,-
Duties between, and Heaven's great hope beyond them.
Fotheringham.

POOR SUSAN.

Ar the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, There's a thrush that sings loud,—it has sung for three years;

Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;

Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail ;
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven :-but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes.
Wordsworth.

THE OLD SOLDIER.

THE night comes on apace;

Chill blows the blast, and drives the snow in wreaths;

Now every creature looks around for shelter,
And, whether man and beast, all move alike
Towards their homes, and happy they who have
A house to screen them from the piercing cold!

H