Its sylvan village sleeps below,
And faintly, here, is heard the flow
Of Woodburn's summer rill;

A place where all things mournful meet,
And yet the sweetest of the sweet!
The stillest of the still!

With what a pensive beauty fall
Across the mossy mouldering wall
That rose-tree's clustering arches! See
The robin red-breast warily,

Bright through the blossoms leaves his nest!
Sweet ingrate! through the winter blest
At the firesides of men-but shy
Through all the sunny-summer hours-
He hides himself among the flowers
In his own wild festivity.

What lulling sound, and shadow cool,
Hangs half the darken'd church-yard o'er,
From thy green depths, so beautiful,
Thon gorgeous sycamore!

Oft hath the lowly wine and bread,

Been blest beneath thy murmuring tent;

Where many a

bright and hoary head,

Bowed at that awful sacrament.

Now all beneath the turf are laid,

On which they sat, and sang, and prayed.

Alone that consecrated tree

Ascends the tapering spire, that seems
To lift the soul up silently

To heaven, with all its dreams!
While in the belfry, deep and low,
From his heaved bosom's purple gleams
The dove's continuous murmurs flow,
A dirge-like song,-half bliss, half woe,→
The voice so lonely seems!

SPRING.

[BISHOP HEBER.]

WHEN spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil;

When summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's toil; When winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the

flood,

In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his Maker

good.

The birds that wake the morning, and those that love the shade,

The winds that sweep the mountain or lull the drowsy

glade,

The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his way, The moon and stars their Master's name in silent pomp

display.

Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the skyShall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny? No; let the year forsake his course, the seasons cease to be,

Thee, Master, must we always love, and Saviour

honour thee.

The flowers of spring may wither, the hope of summer

fade,

The autumn droop in winter, the bird forsake the shade, The winds be lull'd, the sun and moon forget their old

decree,

But we, in nature's latest hour, O Lord, will cling to

thee!'

LINES UPON A BUTTERFLY,

SEEN ON THE SUMMIT OF MONT BLANU.

[REV. WILLIAM LIPDIARD.]

HAIL to thee! thou little fly,
Uplifted by that beauteous wing,
Rich in each ever varying dye
That greets the gaze-enraptured eye;
Such as the clouds of evening bring,
When sets the sun that paints the sky.

Not idly lent, those wings that lift
Thee thus so high have been assigned
The type of the immortal mind—
To man on earth Heaven's brightest gift:
Earth scorning thus with rapid flight,
As high as thought, as fancy swift,

They bear thee from the realms of night,
Above man's path-this mountain white.

While toil-worn man, with faltering feet,
Ascends the mount, leaves those beneath,
The purer air thy winglets beat;

And while he heaves his hurried breath.
Like that which marks the hour of death,

Thou gambol'st here aloft and fleet;
And as thou fliest, thou seem'st to say.
This is to higher realms the way;
Leave the cold earth, and come away !

MORALIZING.

[DELTA.]

How soft is the sound of the river,

Stealing down through the green piny dale,
Where the sunbeams of eventide quiver
Through the scarce-stirring foliage, and ever
The cooing dove plains out its tale;
And the blackbird melodiously sings
An anthem, reminding of innocent things.

Blue evening comes onward, and scatters
The fires in the western serene;
And the shadows of Lebanon's daughters,
Darkly imaged, outspread on the waters,
Festoon'd with their branches of

The clouds journey past, and below

green;

Are reflected, in brightness, their margins of snow.

Ch, sweet is the vision that loses

Present cares in the glow of the past!

As the light of reflection reposes
On youth, with its blossoming roses,
And sunshine too lovely to last.

Sweet dreams! that have sparkled and gone.
Like torrents of blue over ledges of stone.

But why should break forth our repining,
Over what we have loved or have lost?
Whether fortune be shaded or shining,
Our destiny bright or declining,

Our visions accomplished or crost,

'Tis ours to be calm and resigned,

Faith's star beaming clear on the night of the mind.

When morning awoke on the ocean,

Dim tempests were lowering around; Yet see, with how steadfast a motion, As the clouds bend and glow with devotion, The sun his asylum hath found! Twilight weeps in deep pleasure, and red Are the low-lying vale, and the tall mountain head. Lo! thus, when the clouds of life's sorrow Have past and have perished, the sky

An added effulgence shall borrow

From the storms that have flown, and the morrow Gleam bright in eternity's eye;

And the Angel of righteousness send

His balm to that heart which is true to the end!

THE CHILD AND FLOWERS.

[MRS. HEMANS.]

HAST thou been in the woods with the honey-bee?
Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free?
With the hare through the copses and dingles wild?
With the butterfly over the heath, fair child?
Yes; the light form of thy hounding feet
Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat;
Yet hast thou ranged the green forest dells,
And brought back a treasure of buds and bells.
Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique song,
Breathed o'er the names of that flowery throng;
The woodbine, the primrose, the violets dim,
The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim:
These are old words, that have made each grove
A dreary haunt for romance and love;
Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie,
A place for the gushings of poesy.