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 That shuts the rose. SIC VITA. D. King. LIKE to the falling of a star, The wind blows out, the bubble dies, 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, YES, they are still the same-the eternal sky, 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, 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 By slow Meander's margent green, Where the love-lorn nightingale Oh! if thou have Hid them in some flow'ry cave, Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere, LIFE. 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, |