TO A LADY.

BY G. D. PRENTICE.

I THINK of thee, when morning springs

From sleep with plumage bathed in dew, And, like a young bird, lifts her wings Of gladness on the welkin blue.

And when, at noon, the breath of love,
O'er flower and stream is wandering free,

And sent in music from the grove,

I think of thee-I think of thee.

I think of thee, when soft and wide

The evening spreads her robes of light,

And, like a young and timid bride,

Sits blushing in the arms of Night.

And when the moon's sweet crescent springs
In light o'er heaven's deep, waveless sea,
And stars are forth like blessed things,
I think of thee-I think of thee.

I think of thee;-that eye of flame,

Those tresses falling bright and free,
That brow where "Beauty writes her name,"
On fancy rush; -I think of thee.

GREEN RIVER.

BY W. C. BRYANT.

WHEN breezes are soft and skies are fair,

I steal an hour from study and care,

And hie me away to the woodland scene,
Where wanders the stream with waters of green;
As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink,
Had given their stain to the wave they drink;
And they, whose meadows it murmurs through,
Have named the stream from its own fair hue.

Yet pure its waters-its shallows are bright
With coloured pebbles and sparkles of light,
And clear the depths where its eddies play,
And dimples deepen and whirl away,

And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot
The swifter current that mines its root,

Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill,
The quivering glimmer of sun and rill,

With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown,

Like the ray that streams from the diamond stone.

Oh, loveliest there the spring days come,

With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees' hum;

The flowers of summer are fairest there,

And freshest the breath of the summer air;

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GREEN RIVER.

That fairy music I never hear,

Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear,
And mark them winding away from sight,
Darkened with shade or flashing with light,
While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings,
And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings,
But I wish that fate had left me free

To wander these quiet haunts with thee,
Till the eating cares of earth should depart,
And the peace of the scene pass into my heart;
And I envy thy stream, as it glides along,
Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song.

Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men; And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, And mingle among the jostling crowd,

Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud

I often come to this quiet place,

To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face,

And gaze upon thee in silent dream,

For in thy lonely and lovely stream,

An image of that calm life appears,
That won my heart in my greener years.

SONG OF THE WAVES AND THE AIR.

THE INDIAN'S IDEA OF THE ORIGIN OF ECHO.

BY S. J. BURR.

I.

AWAY o'er the bright flashing billow,

A little white boat flew along

As it dashed on the spray-lighted surge,
From its centre there came forth a song.

II.

The spirits of air and of water,

Were mingling their vioces in one;

And the winds and the waves seemed to loiter,

To catch the sweet notes of the tune.

III.

And Echo for fear she should lose it

Came down from her green-skirted hills,

And faintly repeated the music,

To teach to her murmuring rills.