With folding winds they waiting sit
For my bark, to pilot it

To some calm and blooming cove,
Where for me, and those I love,
May a windless bower be built,
Far from passion, pain, and guilt,
In a dell mid lawny hills,

Which the wild sea-murmur fills,
And soft sunshine, and the sound
Of old forests echoing round,
And the light and smell divine

Of all flowers that breathe and shine.
-We may live so happy there,
That the spirits of the air,
Envying us, may even entice
To our healing paradise

The polluting multitude;

But their rage would be subdued

By that clime divine and calm,

And the winds whose wings rain balm
On the uplifted soul, and leaves
Under which the bright sea heaves;
While each breathless interval
In their whisperings musical
The inspired soul supplies
With its own deep melodies;

And the love which heals all strife,
Circling, like the breath of life,
All things in that sweet abode
With its own mild brotherhood.
They, not it, would change; and soon
Every sprite beneath the moon

Would repent its envy vain,

And the earth grow young again!

PERCY BYSSHe Shelley.

THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS.

ADDRESSED TO TWO SWALLOWS THAT FLEW INTO CHURCH DURING DIVINE SERVICE.

AY, guiltless pair,

What seek ye from the fields of heaven?

Ye have no need of prayer;

Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

Why perch ye here,

Where mortals to their Maker bend?

Can your pure spirits fear

The God ye never could offend?

Ye never knew

The crimes for which we come to weep.
Penance is not for you,
Blessed wanderers of the upper deep.

To you 'tis given

To wake sweet nature's untaught lays; Beneath the arch of heaven

To chirp away a life of praise.

Then spread each wing

Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,

And join the choirs that sing

In yon blue dome not reared with hands.

Or, if ye stay,

To note the consecrated hour,
Teach me the airy way,
And let me try your envied power.

Above the crowd

On upward wings could I but fly,

I'd bathe in yon bright cloud, And seek the stars that gem the sky.

'T were heaven indeed

Through fields of trackless light to soar,

On nature's charms to feed,

And nature's own great God adore.

CHARLES SPRAGUE.

O WINTER! WILT THOU NEVER GO?

WINTER! wilt thou never, never go?

O summer! but I weary for thy coming,
Longing once more to hear the Luggie
flow,

And frugal bees laboriously humming.
Now the east-wind diseases the infirm,

And must crouch in corners from rough weather;
Sometimes a winter sunset is a charm-
When the fired clouds, compacted, blaze together,
And the large sun dips red behind the hills.
I, from my windɔw, can behold this pleasure;
And the eternal moon, what time she fills
Her orb with argent, treading a soft measure,
With queenly motions of a bridal mood,
Through the white spaces of infinitude.

THE HEATH-COCK.

DAVID GRAY.

OOD morrow to thy sable beak
And glossy plumage dark and sleek,
Thy crimson moon and azure eye,
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy:
I see thee slyly cowering through
That wiry web of silvery dew,
That twinkles in the morning air,
Like casements of my lady fair.

A maid there is in yonder tower,
Who, peeping from her early bower,
Half shows, like thee, her simple wile,
Her braided hair and morning smile.
The rarest things, with wayward will,
Beneath the covert hide them still;
The rarest things to break of day
Look shortly forth, and shrink away.

A fleeting moment of delight

I sunned me in her cheering sight;
As short, I ween, the time will be
That I shall parley hold with thee.
Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day,
The climbing herd-boy chants his lay,
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring-
Thou art already on the wing.

Joanna Baillie.

MOONLIGHT ON THE PRAIRIE.

" FROM EVANGELINE."

Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me?

Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prai

rie!

silence.

Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden

Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers

and confessions

Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.

Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews,

Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight

Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the oak-trees,

Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie.

Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers.

Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens,

Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship,

Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple,

As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, "Upharsin."

And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies,

Wandered alone, and she cried, "O Gabriel! O my beloved!

Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee?

HENRY WADSWORTH LONgfellow.

GOD EVERYWHERE IN NATURE.

OW desolate were nature, and how void
Of every charm, how like a naked waste
Of Africa, were not a present God
Beheld employing, in its various scenes,
His active might to animate and adorn!
What life and beauty, when, in all that breathes,
Or moves, or grows, his hand is viewed at work?
When it is viewed unfolding every bud,
Each blossom tingeing, shaping every leaf,
Wafting each cloud that passes o'er the sky,
Rolling each billow, moving every wing
That fans the air, and every warbling throat
Heard in the tuneful woodlands! In the least
As well as in the greatest of his works
Is ever manifest his presence kind;
As well in swarms of glittering insects, seen
Quick to and fro within a foot of air,
Dancing a merry hour, then seen no more,
As in the systems of resplendent worlds,
Through time revolving in unbounded space.
His eye, while comprehending in one view
The whole creation fixes full on me;

As on me shines the sun with his full blaze,
While o'er the hemisphere he spreads the same,
His hand, while holding oceans in its palm,
And compassing the skies, surrounds my life,
Guards the poor rushlight from the blast of death.
CARLOS WILCOX.

THE PILOT.

He

OHN MAYNARD was well known
in the Lake district as a God-fearing,
honest, and intelligent man.
was pilot on a steam-boat from De-
troit to Buffalo. One summer after-
noon-at that time those steamers
seldom carried boats-smoke was
seen ascending from below; and
the captain called out, "Simpson,
go below and see what the matter
is down there."

Simpson came up with his face as pale as ashes, and said, "Captain, the ship is on fire!" Then "Fire! fire! fire!" on shipboard.

All hands were called up; buckets of water were dashed on the fire, but in vain. There were large quantities of rosin and tar on board, and it was found useless to attempt to save the ship. The passengers rushed forward and inquired of the pilot, "How far are we from Buffalo?"

LOST IN THE SNOW.

HE cold winds swept the mountain's height, And pathless was the dreary wild, And, 'mid the cheerless hours of night, A mother wandered with her child. As through the drifted snows she pressed, The babe was sleeping on her breast. And colder still the winds did blow,

And darker hours of night came on, And deeper grew the drifts of snowHer limbs were chilled, her strength was gone"O God, she cried, in accents wild, "If I must perish, save my child!"

She stripped her mantle from her breast,

And bared her bosom to the storm,
And round the child she wrapped the vest,

And smiled to think her babe was warm.
With one cold kiss, one tear she 'shed,
And sunk upon a snowy bed.

At dawn, a traveler passed by:

She lay beneath a snowy veil ;
The frost of death was in her eye;

Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale-
He moved the robe from off the child;
The babe looked up, and sweetly smiled.

JOHN MAYNARD.

WAS on Lake Erie's broad expanse,
One bright midsummer day,
The gallant steamer Ocean Queen
Swept proudly on her way.

Bright faces clustered on the deck,

Or leaning o'er the side,
Watched carelessly the feathery foam,
That flecked the rippling tide.
Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky,

That smiling bends serene,
Could dream that danger, awful, vast,
Impended o'er the scene-

Could dream that ere an hour had sped,
That frame of sturdy oak

Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves,
Blackened with fire and smoke?

A seaman sought the captain's side,
A moment whispered low;
The captain's swarthy face grew pale,
He hurried down below.
Alas, too late! Though quick and sharp
And clear his orders came,
No human efforts could avail
To quench the insidious flame.