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The wild beasts of the forest came,
Broke from their bughts and folds the tame,
And gazed around, charm'd and amazed;
Even the dull cattle croon'd and gazed,
And murmur'd and look'd with anxious pain,
For something the mystery to explain.
The buzzard came, with the throstle-cock;
The corbie left her houff in the rock;
The blackbird along with the eagle flew;
The hind came tripping o'er the dew;
The wolf and the kid their play began,

And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran;
The hawk and the heron above them hung,

And the merle and the mavis forsook their young;
And all in a peaceful ring were hurl'd:

It was like an eve in a sinless world!

When a month and a day had come and gane,
Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene;
There laid her down on the leaves so green,
And Kilmeny on earth was never more seen.
But all the land were in fear and dread,

For they knew not whether she was living or dead.
It was not her home, and she could not remain ;

She left this world of sorrow and pain,
And return'd to the land of thought again.


By CAROLINE BOWLES, who afterwards became the wife of the father of the child whose early death she had thus eloquently mourned. 'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus,-when hope hath built a bower

Like that of Eden, wreath'd about with every thornless flower,

To dwell therein securely the self-deceivers trust;

A whirlwind from the desert comes, and all is in the dust.

'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus,-that when the poor heart


With all its finest tendrils, with all its flexile rings,

That goodly thing it cleaveth to, so fondly and so fast, Is struck to earth by lightning, or shatter'd by the blast.

'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus,-with beams of mortal bliss, With looks too bright and beautiful for such a world as this;

One moment round about us, their "Angel lightnings" play, Then down the veil of darkness drops and all hath pass'd away.

'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus,—with sounds too sweet for earth,

Seraphic sounds, that float away (borne heavenward), in their birth,

The golden shell is broken, the silver cord is mute,

The sweet bells all are silent, and hush'd the lively lute.

'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus,-with all that's best below, The dearest, noblest, loveliest, are always first to go; The bird that sings the sweetest, the pine that crowns the rock,

The glory of the garden, the flower of the flock.

'Tis ever thus-'tis ever thus,-with creatures heavenly fair, Too finely framed to bide the brunt more earthly natures


A little while they dwell with us, blest ministers of love, They spread the wings we had not seen and seek their home above.


By HERRICK, the most poetical of our early poets.

CHARM me to sleep and melt me so
With thy delicious numbers,
That, being ravish'd, hence I go
Away in easy slumbers.

Oh make me weep
My pains asleep,
And grant me such reposes,
That I, poor I,

May think thereby

I live and die midst roses.

Fall on me like the silent dew,
Or like those maiden showers
Which, at the peep of day, do strew
A baptism o'er the flowers.
Melt, melt my pains

With thy soft strains,
That, ease unto me given,
With full delight

I leave this light

And take my flight for Heaven.


This appeared some years ago anonymously in one of the periodicals. We believe it came from America.

You took me, Henry, when a girl, into your home and heart,

To bear in all your after-fate a fond and faithful part;
And tell me, have I ever tried that duty to forego,

Or pined there was not joy for me when you were sunk in woe ?

No, I would rather share your grief than other people's glee;

For though you're nothing to the world, you're all the world

to me.

You make a palace of my shed, this rough-hewn bench a


There's sunlight for me in your smile, and music in your


I look upon you when you sleep-my eyes with tears grow


I cry, "O! Parent of the poor, look down from heaven on


Behold him toil, from day to day, exhausting strength and


Look down in mercy on him, Lord, for Thou canst make him whole!"

And when, at last, relieving sleep has on my eyelids smiled, How oft are they forbid to close in slumber by my child!

I take the little murmurer that spoils my span of rest,
And feel it is a part of thee I hold upon my breast.

There's only one return I crave-I may not need it longAnd it may soothe thee when I'm where the wretched feel

no wrong.

I ask not for a kinder tone, for thou wert ever kind;
I ask not for less frugal fare-my fare I do not mind.

I ask not for more gay attire-if such as I have got
Suffice to make me fair to thee, for more I murmur not;
But I would ask some share of hours that you in toil


Of knowledge, that you prize so much, may I not something know?

Subtract from meetings amongst men each eve an hour for


Make me companion for your soul, as I may surely be;
If you will read, I'll sit and work; then think, when you're


Less tedious I shall find the time, dear Henry, of your stay.

A meet companion soon I'll be for e'en your studious hours, And teacher of those little ones you call your cottageflowers:

And if we be not rich and great, we may be wise and kind; And as my heart can warm your heart, so may my mind your mind!


A beautiful passage from BYRON'S Don Juan.

I LEAVE Don Juan for the present, safe-
Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded;
Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half

Of those of which his Haidée's bosom bounded!
She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe,
And then give way, subdued because surrounded ;
Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez,
Where all is Eden, or a wilderness.

There the large olive rains its amber store

In marble fonts; there grain, and flower, and fruit, Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er;

But there, too, many a poison-tree has root,
And midnight listens to the lion's roar,

And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot,
Or heaving whelm the helpless caravan;
And as the soil is, so the heart of man.

Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth
Her human clay is kindled, full of power
For good or evil; burning from its birth,

The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour,
And like the soil beneath it will bring forth:

Beauty and love were Haidée's mother's dower; But her large dark eye show'd deep Passion's force, Though sleeping like a lion near a source.

Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray,
Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair,
Till slowly charged with thunder they display
Terror to earth, and tempest to the air,
Had held till now her soft and milky way;

But overwrought with passion and despair,
The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins,
Even as the Simoon sweeps the blasted plains.

The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore,
And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down;
His blood was running on the very floor

Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own:
Thus much she view'd an instant and no more,-
Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan;
On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held
Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd.

A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes
Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er;
And her head droop'd, as when the lily lies

O'ercharged with rain: her summon'd handmaids bore Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes;

Of herbs and cordials they produced their store,
But she defied all means they could employ,
Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy.

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