Thus I like to hear the singing Of the busy little bee, Singing ever merrily:

"Skill is good with industry." Working still, and singing gaily, Thus I love to hear it daily.

Song of the Oid Cloak.

FROM THE GERMAN.

OLD cloak, full thirty years thou'st seen In many a storm so drear;

Thou hast shielded me like a brother true, And when the balls around us flew,

Thou and I we knew no fear.

We bivouacked full many a night
Wet to the skin to be;

'Twas thou alone didst warm me still,

And all my heart's grief, every ill,

I told it alone to thee.

My trust thou never didst betray,
Thou faithful wert, and true.
Faithful in every part wert thou;

Therefore, no patch shall mend thee now,

Old friend, to make thee new.

And though they all may jeer at me,

Yet still to me thou 'rt dear;

For where the tatters hang so low,

'Tis there the bullets and the balls passed

through,

Every bullet has made a tear.

And when the last ball comes to strike

The old and faithful heart,

Old cloak, in thee shall they bury me, 'Tis the last service I will ask of thee, And so shall we never part.

There shall we lie in peace and sleep
Till the last dread trumpet's call,
The trump that wakes all to life again
Needs must, I shall want my old cloak then
To answer to its call.

Thoughts

BORROWED FROM THE GERMAN.

OH, spare the living, judge them leniently;
Exact not all the honour that is due :-
The calm exterior and the cold proud eye

Hide many a gnawing, rankling grief from view. Thou see'st but the outward act and deed,

The motive and the thought thou canst not read. Oh, spare the living, judge them leniently!

Oh, spare the living, judge them leniently,-
How soon their trace will pass from earth away;
And thy just anger, and thy vengeance high,
Will fall on some poor mass of lifeless clay.
Thou wilt regret it then, when he is dead,
Thou shalt regret it then, when thou art dead.
Oh, spare the living, judge them leniently!

The Fountain.

I STOOD beside a cool and shady cave,
A peaceful cradle of the mountain wave;
Where yet the infant torrent, deep and wild,
Lay tranquil as the slumbers of a child.

It seemed a home where Echo loved to dwell,
Like water-spirit in her moss-fringed cell.

And there I saw a little spot of stone

Wet with the trickling drops that fell thereon,—
The fountain shed its treasure-stores of dews,
Yet, did the cold and thankless rock refuse
To show its sparry gems, till lengthening years
Had washed away its dross in streams of tears.

Methought, the heart is like that barren rock,
Needing the oft-repeated healing shock,
And sorrow's fountain showers, with gentle fall,
To wash away its stains, and break its thrall :-
And it needs many a tear, and many a day,
Ere the hard, rugged stone is worn away!

D