With dreams like thine own floating clouds, The vague, but not the vain. No feelings are less vain than those That bear the mind away, Till, blent with nature's mysteries, But now where may we seek a place For any spirit's dream? Our steps have been o'er every soil, Our sails o'er every stream. Those isles, the beautiful Azores, We looked for their perpetual spring, To find it was not there. Bright El Dorado, land of gold, We have so sought for thee, There's not a spot in all the globe How pleasant were the wild beliefs That dwelt in legends old ; Alas! to our posterity Will no such tales be told. We know too much; scroll after scroll Weighs down our weary shelves; Our only point of ignorance Alas! for thy past mystery, Nurse of the tempest, hadst thou none THE BOY OF EGREMOND. BY SAMUEL ROGERS. "SAY what remains when hope is fled?" At Embsay rung the matin-bell, The stag was roused on Barden-fell; The mingled sounds were swelling, dying, And down the Wharfe a hern was flying; When near the cabin in the wood, His voice was heard no more! 'Twas but a step! the gulf was passed; But that step it was his last! As through the mist he winged his way, That narrow space of noise and strife There now the matin-bell is rung; The "Miserere" duly sung; And holy men, in cowl and hood, Sit now, and answer groan for groan. с Shall oft remind thee, waking,. sleeping, Of those who by the Wharfe were weeping; When red with blood the river rolled. THE HOLIDAY. BY THE REV. THOMAS MAUDE. HARK to that joyous shout! Methinks I hear Bright through the window shone the mocking sun; 'T is asked-'t is granted! With reluctance feigned, The double favour is in form obtained; But the good master chuckles while he grants, |