How often have I loitered o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm ;

The never-failing brook, the busy mill;

The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill;
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age, and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blessed the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree:
While many a pastime circled in the shade,

The

young contending as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And sleights of art, and feats of strength went rounà
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove-
These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please.
Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
There as I passed, with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young ;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year.
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour,
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train;
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain.
The long remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings leaned to virtue's side;
But, in his duty prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all.
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies;
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul!
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Ev'n children followed with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed ;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,
The village master taught his little school.

A man severe he was, and stern to view;
I knew him well, and every truant knew.
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee,
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper, circling round,
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned:
Yet he was kind; or, if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
The village all declared how much he knew;
"Twas certain he could write, and cipher too;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And even the story ran that he could gauge;
In arguing too, the parson owned his skill,
For even though vanquished, he could argue still :
While words of learned length, and thundering sound,
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame: the very spot
Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot.

Near yonder thorn that lifts its head on high,
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired.
Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired;
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlour splendours of that festive place;
The whitewashed wall, the nicely-sanded floor,
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door;
The chest, contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The Twelve Good Rules, the Royal game of Goose;
The hearth, except when winter chilled the day.
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay;
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.

Yes, let the rich deride, the proud disdain
These simple blessings of the lowly train;
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art:
Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play,
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined:

But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed.

In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ;
And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks-if this be joy?

A LEGEND OF FLORENCE.

PERCY G. MOCATTA.

[Mr. Mocatta is a composer of music, but he has written also some charming poems and lyrics. The following piece, the copyright of the author, has been written specially for Mrs. Newton Phillips, by whom it has become popularised in the most fashionable circles, and whose consent must be obtained before it can be publicly delivered by other elocutionists.]

IN Florence (Florence! home of song and sun,—
Nature and Art, combin'd in countless forms),

Dwelleth a master-painter, and his one

Young, beauteous daughter, love for whom soon warms
The breast aspiring of a pupil-lad:

Requiting which, she stirs to desp'rate ire,

To imprecation fierce and frenzy mad,

A pitiless and unforgiving sire.

Nor plea nor protestation will he hear,
Nor heed of mutual love the tender tale;
Nor mark the fallen face, the trickling tear,
Succeeding oft where argument doth fail!
"Dost boast of talent, boy?" he fiercely cries,
"Go, paint me lilies brown, and roses blue!
A picture even critics' eagle-eyes

Shall find, in all respects, to Nature true!
Then, then alone, come woo my daughter fair,
Then only shall she bless thee with her hand;
Begone! my bidding do, or else beware

A Father's wrath! Rash youth, dost understand?"
O, task impossible! Dare mortal hope

To work and win on terms so passing hard?
Nay, nay, 'tis tar beyond Luigi's scope;
His life's a blank,-his bliss for ever marr'd!
He wanders wearily by Arno's stream,
And, gazing down upon its crystal face,
Longs for those waters, lit by sun's last beam,
To clasp him in their close, yet cold embrace!
But hark! the pealing Angelus recalls
From Arno Luigi's melancholy mind;
And, wand'ring on, within the church's walls
He stands, where peace poor penitents may find.
Our Lady's festal day! The organ swells,
And, on its tones sonorous, wafts above :-
"Ora pro nobis, Mater!" which upwells

From a thousand throats, imploring Heav'nly love!

Poor Luigi! Vain his search! It cannot be!
He gropes in darkness;-ne'er one gleam of light;
But soft! Who enters there? His love?-'tis she!
Who roses pale doth bear and lilies white!
She sees him not; but passing Mary's shrine,
Her floral off'ring makes, and pray'rful kneels;
He gazeth fondly on her form divine,

And, lo! amazement o'er his features steals!
What can it be? He fears his reason's going
(And men from slighter cause their senses lose!)
A fever'd dream? No! still the flow'rs are blowing,
And rose and lily wear the wished-for hues !
A miracle, forsooth! or, maybe, two!

For, as the maiden riseth from her pray'r,
Her veil, which erst was white, to Luigi's view,
Now shades of blue and brown begins to wear!
Then, swift as thought, doth yon stain'd glass confess
The secret:-how Sol's rays, in piercing thro',
Chang'd rose and lily's white to tinted dress;
A change-complete, and yet to Nature true!

The picture's painted, and the prize secur'd;
Proving to all, beyond a shade of doubt,—
To all who've martyrdom for Love endur'd:-
"No task exists Love cannot carry out!"

(By permission of the Author.)

THE HUSH OF LIFE.

LEOPOLD WAGNER.

The shades of Night assert their mournful sway,
And passing o'er, we mark another day.
No voice of labour greets the stranger ear;
The forge, the mill, and all is hushed and drear;
No children cluster round the schoolhouse door;
Reposing in their cots their tasks are o'er.

Without the silent village, in the fields
Observe how fitting all to Nature yields !
The bleating sheep subdue their gentle cry;
The lowing cattle feel the night is nigh;
The droning insects check their busy sound;
The twitt'ring birds their several nests have found.

'Way down the lane, the churchyard's open gate, Invites the passer-by to meditate