THE THRUSH'S NEST.

3. Clare.

WITHIN a thick and spreading hawthorn bush, That overhung a mole hill large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound

With joy; and oft, an unintruding guest,

I watched her secret toils from day to day, How true she wrapped the moss to form her nest,

And modelled it within with wool and clay. And by-and-by, like heath bells gilt with dew, There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers,

Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue; And there I witnessed in the summer hours, A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly, Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.

THE storm that wrecks the wintry sky
No more disturbs their deep repose,
Than summer evening's latest sigh

That shuts the rose.

SIC VITA.

D. King.

LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like the wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood,
Even such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight called in and paid to-night.

The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot.

WRITTEN ON A TOMBSTONE IN MELROSE ABBEY.

Auon.

EARTH walketh on the earth,

Glistering like gold;

Earth goeth to the earth,

Sooner then it wold;

Earth buildeth on the earth,

Palaces and towers;

Earth sayeth to the earth,
All shall be ours.

YES, they are still the same-the eternal sky,
The circling hills that bound my native vale,
The old familiar trees, the southern gale
That steals from ocean's breast the rising sigh;
The winding stream whose murmuring lullaby
Should woo my soul to peace; the joyful song
Of close secluded bird, that all day long
Pours forth his tender burst of minstrelsy.
But oh! ye dear companions of my youth,
Where are ye fled? I call-but to my voice
Ye make no answer.-Melancholy truth!
That nature should be changeless, but the joys
That follow life so soon should pass away,
While things so 'fair and sweet,' do bid them
stay.

ON READING THE LIFE OF MILTON.

Samuel Gower.

So goes the world—some with a pen of iron Ensculpturing the rocks of time unseen, While others, writing on the gaping sand, Call round an amphitheatre of eyes,

On what an hour's full tide will wash away.

SABBATH SONNET.

Mrs. Bemans.

COMPOSED FEW DAYS BEFORE HER DEATH, AND DEDICATED TO HER BROTHER.]

How many blessed groups

bending,

this hour are

Through England's primrose meadow paths, their way

Toward spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms ascending,

Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallow'd day!

The Halls, from old heroic ages grey,

Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low, With whose thick orchard blooms the soft winds play,

Send out their inmates in a happy flow,
Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread
With them those pathways-to the feverish

bed

Of sickness bound. Yet, oh, my God! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath fill'd My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings still'd

To one deep calm, of lowliest thankfulness.

ECHO.

Milton.

SWEET Echo, sweetest nymph that liv'st unseen
Within thy airy shell,

By slow Meander's margent green,
And in the violet-embroidered vale,

Where the love-lorn nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
That likest thy Narcisssus are?

Oh! if thou have

Hid them in some flow'ry cave,
Tell me but where

Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere,
So may'st thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all Heaven's
harmonies.

LIFE.
Byron.

BETWEEN two worlds, life hovers like a star, 'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's

verge.

How little do we know that which we are,