A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE.

Here runs the highway to the town;

There the green lane descends,

Through which I walk'd to church with thee, O gentlest of my friends!

The shadow of the linden-trees
Lay moving on the grass;
Between them and the moving boughs,

A shadow, thou didst pass.

Thy dress was like the lilies,

And thy heart as pure as they : One of God's holy messengers Did walk with me that day.

I saw the branches of the trees
Bend down thy touch to meet,
The clover-blossoms in the grass
Rise up to kiss thy feet.

"Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Of earth and folly born!" Solemnly sang the village choir,

On that sweet Sabbath morn.

Through the closed blinds the golden sun

Pour'd in a dusty beam,

Like the celestial ladder seen

By Jacob in his dream.

And ever and anon, the wind,

Sweet-scented with the hay,

Turn'd o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves,

That on the window lay.

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Long was the good man's sermon,
Yet it seem'd not so to me;
For he spake of Ruth the beautiful,
And still I thought of thee.

Long was the prayer he utter'd,
Yet it seem'd not so to me;
For in my heart I pray'd with him,
And still I thought of thee.

But now, alas! the place seems changed;

Thou art no longer here:

Part of the sun Line of the scene

With thee did disappear.

Though thoughts, deep-roofed in my heart,

Like pine-trees dark and high,
Subdue the light of noon, and breathe

A low and cea-cles sigh;

This memory brightens o'er the past,

As when the sun, conceal'd

Behind some cloud that near us hangs,
Shines on a distant field.

DEAR IS MY LITTLE NATIVE VALE.

DEAR is my little native vale,

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there, Close by my cot she tells her tale,

To every passing villager.

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange-groves and myrile bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,

I charm the fairy-footed hours,

With my loved lute's romantic sound; . Or crowns of living laurel weave,

For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay,

Sung in the silent green-wood shade,-
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.

GOOD-BYE, good-bye to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,

Cool breezes in the sun;
Our thrushes now are silent,

Our swallows flown away,

But Robin's here, in coat of brown, And scarlet breast-knot gay. Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!

Robin sings so sweetly

In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange,

The leaves come down in hosts:

The trees are Indian princes.

But soon they'll turn to ghosts;

The leathery pears and apples

Hang russet on the bough;

It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, "Twill soon be Winter now.