Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountains driven,
Or music by the night wind sent

Through strings of some still instrument,
Or moonlight on a midnight stream,
Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream.

AN APRIL DAY.

By LONGFELLOW.

WHEN the warm sun, that brings
Seed time and harvest, has return'd again,
'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
The first flower of the plain.

I love the season well,

When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell

The coming on of storms.

From the earth's loosen'd mould
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,
The drooping tree revives.

The softly warbled song

Comes from the pleasant woods, and colour'd wings
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along
The forest openings.

When the bright sunset fills

The silver woods with light, the green slope throws
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,

And wide the upland glows.

And, when the eve is born,

In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,
Is hollow'd out, and the moon dips her horn,
And twinkles many a star.

Inverted in the tide,

Stand the grey rocks, and trembling shadows throw,
And the fair trees look over, side by side,

And see themselves below.

Sweet April-many a thought

Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,
Life's golden fruit is shed.

THE SWALLOW.

By H. ROWLAND BROWN.

THOU'RT Come again, oh! bonnie bird! with joy we welcome thee,

Who, borne on hope's exultant wings, hath cross'd the billowy sea.

But wherefore didst thou come to us from brighter lands than ours?

Say, was it love that made thee fly back to thy native bowers?

Thou camest from a sunny clime, where whispering zephyrs sigh,

Where orange blossoms waft their scents beneath a cloud

less sky;

Where, like a brilliant shower of pearls, down many a grotto's side,

With music sweet as sweetest song, the crystal waters glide.

Who taught thee that those skies would change the breeze's chilling blow,

The waters that in sunshine gleam'd would frozen cease to flow?

Could not those scenes of joyous life prevail on thee to stay? Who taught thee that, though beautiful, the flowers would soon decay?

Sweet bird, thou heard'st the voice of Him who speaks to man in vain,

'Twas God who bade thee rest not there, but come to us

again :

And underneath the frowning skies, above the bubbling

wave,

With strength He nerved thy fluttering wings, with faith He made thee brave.

And now, thy voyage is safely past, blest emblem of His care, Thou teachest us of transient scenes and changes to beware; And front with truth life's billowy sea, and brave the battling blast,

If we would hope in Heaven to find a resting place at last. Then welcome home, oh! bonnie bird! with joy I welcome thee,

Thy journey o'er the pathless deep sweet hope has given

to me:

The world from which I fly, though bright, I feel is fading too, So teach me, God, to hear Thy voice, and like this bird be true!

THE DEATH OF ENOCH WRAY.

The closing passage of the Village Patriarch, by EBENEZER ELLIOTT. The poem is somewhat tedious, but abounding in grand and beautiful thoughts. There are few finer in the whole range of British poetry than the following solemn strain, with its dying fall.

AND when the woodbine's cluster'd trumpet blows;
And when the pink's melodious hues shall speak,
In unison of sweetness with the rose,
Joining the song of every bird that knows
How sweet it is of wedded love to sing;
And when the fells, fresh-bathed in azure air,
Wide as the summer day's all golden wing,
Shall blush to Heaven, that nature is so fair,
And man condemn'd to labour in despair;
Then the gay gnat that sports its little hour;
The falcon, wheeling from the ancient wood;
The redbreast, fluttering o'er its fragrant bower;
The yellow-bellied lizard of the flood;
And dewy morn, and evening-in her hood
Of crimson, fringed with lucid shadows grand—
Shali miss the Patriarch; at his cottage door
The bee shall seek to settle on his hand,
But from the vacant bench haste to the moor,
Mourning the last of England's high-soul'd poor,
And bid the mountains weep for Enoch Wray;
And for themselves!-albeit of things that last
Unalter'd most: for they shall pass away

Like Enoch, though their iron roots seem fast
Bound to the eternal future, as the past;
The Patriarch died! and they shall be no more.
Yes, and the sailless worlds, which navigate
The unutterable deep, that hath no shore,
Will lose their starry splendour soon or late!
Like tapers, quench'd by Him whose will is fate!
Yes, and the Angel of Eternity,

Who numbers worlds, and writes their names in light,
Ere long, oh Earth, will look in vain for thee!
And start, and stop, in his unerring flight,
And, with his wings of sorrow and affright,
Veil his impassion'd brow and heavenly tears!

DESCRIPTION OF THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.
By THOMSON.

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,

With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round,
A most enchanting wizard did abide,

Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found.

It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground;

And there a season atween June and May,

Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrown'd, A listless climate made, where sooth to say,

No living wight could work, ne caréd e'en for play.

Was nought around but images of rest;
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet laws between;
And flowery beds, that slumbrous influence kest,
From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green,
Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
Meantime unnumber'd glittering streamlets play'd,
And hurled everywhere their waters sheen:
That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.

Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale,
And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills,
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale:
And now and then sweet Philomel would wail,

Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep,
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale;
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep:
Yet all these sounds yblent inclinéd all to sleep.

Full in the passage of the vale, above,
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood;

Where nought but shadowy forms were seen to move,
As Idlesse fancied in her dreaming mood:

And up the hills, on either side a wood

Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro,
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood;

And where this valley winded out, below,

The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow.

A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was,

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
For ever flushing round a summer sky:
There eke the soft delights that witchingly
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast,
And the calm pleasures, always hover'd nigh;
But whate'er smack'd of noyance or unrest,
Was far, far off expell'd from this delicious nest.

The landscape such, inspiring perfect ease,
Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight)
Close hid his castle 'mid embowering trees,
That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright,
And made a kind of chequer'd day and night..
Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate,
Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight
Was placed and to his lute, of cruel fate,
And labour harsh, complain'd, lamenting man's estate.

The doors, that knew no shrill alarming bell,
Ne cursed knocker, plied by villain's hand,
Self-open'd into halls, where, who can tell
What elegance and grandeur wide expand,
The pride of Turkey and of Persia land?
Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread,
And couches stretch'd around in seemly band;
And endless pillows rise to prop the head;

So that each spacious room was one full-swelling bed.