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There's not a spot where your foot has trod,

You hard old clumsy fellow !
Not a hill nor a vale nor a single sod,

But what I shall have to mellow.

And I shall spread them o'er with grass,

That will look so fresh and cheering,
None will regret that they let you pass

Far out of sight and hearing.
The fountains you lock up so tight,

When I shall give them a sunning,
Will sparkle in my dazzling light,

And the brooks will set to running.

The boughs you've caked all o'er with ice

'Tis chilling to behold them ;
I'll stick them round with buds so nice-

My breath alone can unfold them.
And when the tree is in blossoms dressed,

The bird with her songs so merry
Will come on its limb to build her nest,

By the sign of the future cherry.

The earth and air by their joyfulness

Shall show the good I'm doing;
And the skies beam down with smiles, to bless

The course that I'm pursuing.”—
Said Winter then, “I would have you learn

By me, my gay new comer !
To push off, too, when it comes your turn,
And yield your place to Summer.”

H. F. GOULD.

THE WEAVER.

CEASELESSLY the weaver, Time,
Sitting at his mystic loom,

Keeps his arrowy shuttle flying,
Every thread a-nears our dying ;

And, with melancholy chime,

Very low and sad withal,

Sings bis solemn madrigal,
As he weaves our web of doom.

“ Mortals !"—thus he, weaving, sings“Bright or dark the web shall be,

As ye will it; all the tissues

Blending in harmonious issues,
Or discordant colourings :

Time the shuttle drives, but you
Give to every thread its hue,
And elect your destiny.

God bestowed the shining warp-
Fill it with as bright a woof;

And the whole shall glow divinely,

As if wrought by angels finely, To the music of the harp ;

And the blended colours be

Like perfected harmony, Keeping evil things aloof.

Envy, malice, pride, and hate--
Foulest progeny of sin-

Let not these the weft entangle,

With their blind and furious wrangle, Marring your diviner fate;

But with love and deeds of good

Be the web throughout endued, And the perfect ye shall win.”

Thus he singeth very low,
Sitting at his mystic loom ;

And his shuttle still is flying

Thread by thread a-nears our dying, Grows our shroud by every throw;

And the hues of woe or heaven

To each thread by us are given,
As he weaves our web of doom.

W. H. BURLEIGI.

INFANTINE INQUIRIES.

“Tell me, O mother! when I grow old,
Will my hair, which my sisters say is like gold,
Grow gray as the old man's, weak and poor,
Who asked for alms at our pillared door ?
Shall I look as sad, shall I speak as slow,
As he, when he told us his tale of woe ?
Will my hands then shake, and my eyes be dim?
Tell me, O mother, shall I grow like him ?

He said-but I knew not what he meant-
That his aged heart with sorrow was rent.
He spoke of the grave as a place of rest,
Where the weary sleep in peace, and are blest;
And he told how his kindred there were laid,
And the friends with whom in his youth he played ;
And tears from the eyes of the old man fell,
And iny sisters wept as they heard his tale!

He spoke of a home, where in childhood's glee
He chased from the wild-flowers the singing bee;
And followed afar, with a heart as light
As its sparkling wings, the butterfly's flight;
And pulled young flowers, where they grew 'neath the

beams
Of the sun's fair light, by his own blue streams :
Yet he left all these, through the world to roam !
Why, O mother! did he leave his home ?

“ Calm thy young thoughts, my own fair child !
The fancies of youth and age are beguiled;
Though pale grow thy cheeks, and thy hair turn gray,
Time cannot steal the soul's youth away!
There's a land, of which thou hast heard me spcak,
Where age never wrinkles the dweller's cheek;
But in joy they live, fair child, like thee-
It was there the old man longed to be!

For he knew that those with whom he had played,
In his heart's young joy, 'neath their cottage shade-
Whose love he shared, when their songs and mirth
Brightened the gloom of this sinful earth-
Whose names from our world had passed away,
As flowers in the breath of an autumn day ;-
He knew that they; with all suffering done,
Encircled the throne of the Holy One!

Though ours be a pillared and lofty home,
Where Want, with his pale train, never may come,
Oh, scorn not the poor with the scorner's jest,
Who seek in the shade of our hall to rest!
For He who hath made the poor may soon
Darken the sky of our glowing noon,
And leave us with woe, in the world's bleak wild :
Oh, soften the griefs of the poor, my child.”

W. P. Brown.

BIRDS OF PASSAGE..

BIRDS ! joyous birds of the wandering wing
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring ?
“We come from the shores of the green old Nile,
From the land where the roses of Sharon smile,
From the palms that wave through the Indian sky,
From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby.

We have swept o'er cities in song renowned—
Silent they lie with the deserts around !
We have crossed proud rivers, whose tide hath rolled
All dark with the warrior blood of old ;
And each worn wing hath regained its home,
Under peasant's roof-tree or monarch's dome.”—

And what have ye found in the monarch's dome,
Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam ?-
“We have found a change, we have found a pall,
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall,

And a mark on the floor, as of life-drops spilt-
Nought looks the same, save the nest we built !"-

Oh, joyous birds ! it hath still been so ;
Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go!
But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep,
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep;
Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot,
Since last ye parted from that sweet spot ?-

“A change we have found there-and many a change!
Faces, and footsteps, and all things strange!
Gone are the heads of the silvery hair,
And the young that were have a brow of care,
And the place is hushed where the children played-
Nought looks the same, save the nest we made !” —

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth,
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth!
Yet, through the wastes of the trackless air,
YE have a Guide, and shall we despair ?
YE over desert and deep have passed, —
So may we reach our bright home at last !

HEMANS.

THE SUNBEAM.
Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall;
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all-
A bearer of hope unto land and sea ;
Sunbeam ! what gift has the world like thee?

Thou art walking the billows, and Ocean smiles-
Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles !
Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam,
And gladdened the sailor like words from home.

To the solemn depths of the forest shades
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades ;
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow,
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below.

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