The Song of the Birds.

WITH what a gentle dirge its voice did fill
The vast and empty hollow of the night! -
It had perched itself upon a tall old tree,
That hung its tufted and thick-clustering leaves
Midway across the brook; and sung most sweetly,
In all the merry and heart-broken sadness
Of those that love hath crazed; Clearly it ran
Through all the delicate compass of its voice: -
And then again, as from a distant hollow,

I heard its sweet tones like an echo sounding,
And coming, like the memory of a friend
From a far distant country -
-or the silent land
Of the mourned and the dead, to which we all are
passing.

It seemed the song of some poor broken heart,
Haunted forever with love's cruel fancies! -

Of one that has loved much

yet never known The luxury of being loved again!

But when the morning broke, and the green woods

Were all alive with birds with what a clear

And ravishing sweetness, sung the plaintive thrush;

I love to hear its delicate rich voice,

Chanting through all the gloomy day, when loud Amid the trees is dropping the big rain,

And gray mists wrap the hills;

for aye the

sweeter

Its song is when the day is sad and dark. And

thus,

When the bright fountains of a woman's love
Are gently running over, if a cloud

But darken, with its melancholy shadow

The bright flowers round our way; her heart Doth learn new sweetness, and her rich voice falls With more delicious sweetness on our ear.

LONGFELLOW.

Books.

GOLDEN Volumes! richest treasures!

Objects of delicious pleasures!

You my eyes rejoicing please,
You my hands in rapture seize
Brilliant, wits and musing sages,
Lights who beamed through many ages!
Left to your conscious leaves their story,
And dared to trust you with their glory;
And now their hope of fame achiev'd,
Dear volumes!-you have not deceived!
CURIOSITIES OF LITERATURE.

Miserere Nobis.

WHO can describe the misereres of the Sistine Chapel? Never by mortal sense was heard a strain of such powerful, such heartmoving pathos! The accordant tones of a hundred human voices, and one that seemed more than human, ascended together to heaven for mercy to mankind, for pardon to a guilty and sinning world. It had nothing in it of this earth, nothing that breathed the ordinary feelings of our nature. It seemed as if every sense and power had been concentrated into that plaintive expression of lamentation, of deep suffering, and supplication which possesses the soul. It was the strain that disembodied spirits might have used who had just passed the boundaries of death, and sought release from that mysterious weight of woe and tremblings of mortal agony that they had suffered in the passage to the grave. It was the music of another state of being. COOMBE ALBEY.

Song.

WHEN stars are in the quiet skies,
Then most I pine for thee;
Bend on me then, thy tender eyes,
As stars look on the sea!

For thoughts, like waves that glide by night,
Are stillest where they shine;
Mine earthly love lies hushed in light
Beneath the heaven of thine.

There is an hour when angels keep

Familiar watch on men ;

When coarser souls are wrapped in sleep
Sweet spirit meet me then.

There is an hour when holy dreams,
Through slumber fairest glide;
And in that mystic hour it seems
Thou shouldst be by my side.

The thoughts of thee too sacred are
For daylight's common beam;

I can but know thee as my star,

My angel, and my my dream.

BULWER.

Youth and Hope and Love.

IN early youth, when life is new,
The heart expands with hope and joy;
Each object is of brightest hue,

And pleasure seems without alloy.

The heart is warm, no chilling fears
Its feelings yet from virtue sever;
And hope a smiling aspect wears

And sweetly seems to say

-"forever."

And if sometimes a sudden storm
Strikes terror to the youthful breast,
Returning sunbeams bright and warm
Restore its peaceful, happy rest.

But soon, alas! too soon 't is past!
And peace gives way to bitter care
For friends, deceitful friends, have cast
Aside the veil they wont to wear.

Love! thou dear source of all our bliss,
Thou bitterest cause of all our woe!
Say must thy torments never cease,

Till thou hast laid thy victim low?