HOFFMANN.

SPARKLING AND BRIGHT.

SPARKLING and bright in liquid light,
Does the wine our goblets gleam in,
With hue as red as the rosy bed

Which a bee would choose to dream in.
Then fill to-night with hearts as light,
To loves as gay and fleeting

As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,
And break on the lips while meeting.

Oh! if Mirth might arrest the flight

Of Time through Life's dominions,

We here awhile would now beguile

The grey-beard of his pinions

To drink to-night with hearts as light,

To loves as gay and fleeting

As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,
And break on the lips while meeting.

But since delight can't tempt the wight,
Nor fond regret delay him,

Nor Love himself can hold the elf,

Nor sober Friendship stay him,

We'll drink to-night with hearts as light.

To loves as gay and fleeting

As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,
And break on the lips while meeting.

MORRIS.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

WOODMAN, spare that tree!

Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand

That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea,

And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke!

Cut not its earth-bound ties;

Oh, spare that aged oak,

Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy

I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy

Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here;

My father pressed my hand

Forgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,

And still thy branches bend.

Old tree! the storm still brave!

And woodman, leave the spot. ;
While I've a hand to save,

Thy axe shall harm it not.

POETRY.

To me the world's an open book,
Of sweet and pleasant poetry;

I read it in the running brook

That sings its way towards the sea. It whispers in the leaves of trees,

The swelling grain, the waving grass, And in the cool, fresh evening breeze That crisps the wavelets as they pass.

The flowers below, the stars above,

In all their bloom and brightness given, Are, like the attributes of love,

The poetry of earth and heaven. Thus Nature's volume, read aright, Attunes the soul to minstrelsy, Tinging life's clouds with rosy light, And all the world with poetry.

'Tis winter, yet there is no sound

Along the air,

Of winds upon their battle-ground,

But gently there,

The snow is falling,-all around

How fair-how fair!

The jocund fields would masquerade;

Fantastic scene!

Tree, shrub, and lawn, and lonely glade

Have cast their green,

And joined the revel, all arrayed

So white and clean.

E'en the old posts, that hold the bars

And the old gate,

Forgetful of their wintry wars,

And age sedate,

High capped, and plumed, like white hussars,

Stand there in state.

The drifts are hanging by the sill,

The eaves, the door;

The hay-stack has become a hill;

All covered o'er

The waggon, loaded for the mill

The eve before.

Maria brings the water-pail.

But where's the well!

Like magic of a fairy tale,

Most strange to tell,

All vanished, curb, and crank, and rail!

How deep it fell!