Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird

On summer's eve;

In outward beauty undecayed,
Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade,
And, like the rainbow thou didst fade,
Casa Wappy!

We mourn for thee, when blind, blank night
The chamber fills;

We pine for thee, when morn's first light
Reddens the hills;

The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea,
All-to the wall-flower and wild-pea-
Are changed; we saw the world through thee,
Casa Wappy!

And though, perchance, a smile may gleam
Of casual mirth,

It doth not own, whate'er may seem,
An inward birth:

We miss thy small step on the stair;—
We miss thee at thine evening prayer;
All day we miss thee-everywhere-
Casa Wappy!

Farewell, then-for a while, farewell-
Pride of my heart!

It cannot be that long we dwell,
Thus torn apart.

Time's shadows like the shuttle flee;
And, dark howe'er life's night may be,
Beyond the grave, I'll meet with thee,
Casa Wappy!

TIME'S CHANGES.

I SAW her once-so freshly fair,
That like a blossom just unfolding,
She opened to life's cloudless air,

And Nature joyed to view its moulding: Her smile it haunts my memory yet;

Her cheek's fine hue divinely glowing; Her rosebud mouth, her eyes of jet,

53

Around on all their light bestowing, Oh, who could look on such a form, So nobly free, so softly tender, And darkly dream that earthly storm Should dim such sweet, delicious splendor? For in her mien, and in her face,

And in her young step's fairy lightness, Naught could the raptured gazer trace

But beauty's glow and pleasure's brightness.

I saw her twice-an altered charm,
But still of magic richest, rarest,
Than girlhood's talisman less warm,
Though yet of earthly sights the fairest;
Upon her breast she held a child,

The very image of its mother,
Which ever to her smiling smiled-
They seemed to live but in each other.
But matron cares of lurking woe

Her thoughtless, sinless look had banished, And from her cheeks the roseate glow

Of girlhood's balmy morn had vanished;
Within her eyes, upon her brow,

Lay something softer, fonder, deeper,
As if in dreams some visioned woe
Had broke th' Elysium of the sleeper.

I saw her thrice-Fate's dark decree
In widow's garments had arrayed her;
Yet beautiful she seemed to be

As even my reveries portrayed her;
The glow, the glance, had passed away,
The sunshine and the sparkling glitter-
Still, though I noted pale decay,

The retrospect was scarcely bitter; For, in their place a calmness dwelt, Serene, subduing, soothing, holyIn feeling which, the bosom felt

That every louder mirth is follyA pensiveness, which is not grief;

A stillness as of sunset streaming; A fairy glow on flower and leaf,

Till earth looks like a landscape dreaming.

A last time-and unmoved she lay,
Beyond life's dim, uncertain river,

A glorious mould of fading clay,
From whence the spark had fled forever!

I gazed-my heart was like to burst-
And, as I thought of years departed—

Ah! could I hear thee!-desolate and lonely
Is life deprived of thee:

I start from out my reverie, to know
That hills between us rise, and rivers flow!

Let Fortune change-be fickle Fate preparing To shower her arrows, or to shed her balm, All that I ask for, pray for, is the sharing With thee life's storm or calm:

For, ah! with others wealth and mirth would be

Less sweet by far than sorrow shared with thee! Yes! vainly, foolishly, the vulgar reckon

That happiness resides in outward shows: Contentment from the lowliest cot may beckon True love to sweet repose:

For genuine bliss can ne'er be far apart,

When soul meets soul, and heart responds to heart.

Farewell! let tyrannous Time roll on, estranging The eyes and heart from each familiar spot: Be fickle friendships with the seasons changing, So that thou changest not!

I would not that the love, which owes its birth To Heaven, should perish like the things of earth

Adieu! as falls the flooding moonlight round me,

Fall Heaven's best joys on thy beloved head! May cares that harass, and may griefs that wound me,

Flee from thy path and bed!

Be every thought that stirs, and hour that flies, Sweet as thy smile, and radiant as thine eyes!

FAREWELL, OUR FATHERS' LAND.

FAREWELL, our fathers' land,

Valley and fountain! Farewell, old Scotland's strand,

Forest and mountain !

Then hush the drum and hush the flute, And be the stirring bagpipe muteSuch sounds may not with sorrow suitAnd fare thee well, Lochaber!

This plume and plaid no more will see,
Nor philabeg, nor dirk at knee,
Nor even the broadswords which Dundee
Bade flash at Killiecrankie.

Farewell, our fathers' land, etc.

Now when of yore, on bank and brae, Our loyal clansmen marshaled gay; Far downward scowls Ben Nevis gray, On sheep-walks spreading lonely. Farewell, our fathers' land, etc.

For now we cross the stormy sea, Ah! never more to look on thee, Nor on thy dun deer, bounding free, From Etive glens to Morven.

Farewell, our fathers' land, etc.

Thy mountain air no more we'll breathe;
The household sword shall eat the sheath,
While rave the wild winds o'er the heath
Where our gray sires are sleeping.
Then farewell, our fathers' land, etc.

MARY DHU.

SWEET, sweet is the rose-bud
Bathed in dew;

But sweeter art thou,

My Mary Dhu.

Oh! the skies of night,
With their eyes of light,
Are not so bright

As my Mary Dhu.
Whenever thy radiant face I see,

The clouds of sorrow depart from me:
As the shadows fly
From day's bright eye,
Thou lightest life's sky,
My Mary Dhu.

Sad, sad is my heart,

When I sigh, adieu! Or gaze on thy parting, My Mary Dhu! Then for thee I mourn, Till thy steps' return Bids my bosom burn

My Mary Dhu.

55

THOMAS HOOD was born in London, May 23, 1798. His father was a bookseller, a man of considerable culture, and had written two novels. Thomas was instructed by a decayed dominie who discovered the boy's talent and encouraged him to cultivate it. Under the direction of this master, he prepared for the press a revised edition of "Paul and Virginia," the first literary work for which he received any pay.

He was placed in the counting-house of a Russian merchant; but his health failed, and he went to Scotland to recover it. On returning, he learned engraving from his uncle, and in 1821 he became sub-editor of the London Magazine. This brought him into the society of Lamb, Talfourd, De Quincey, Procter, and other literary men of the day.

He had written poetry at an early age, elaborating his verses with great care, and often putting them into printed characters in order to judge the better how they would stand the test of print. His first publication was "Odes and Addresses to Great People," written in conjunction with his brother-in-law, J. H. Reynolds. In 1826 Hood published the first series of "Whims and Oddities." In 1829 he began the "Comic Annual," which was continued nine years. In 1831 he removed to Wanstead, in Essex, where he resided four years, and where he wrote his

novel "Tylney Hall." These were the most prosperous years of his life. But pecuniary misfortune overtook him, and he returned to London in 1835, where three years later he began the publication of Hood's Own.

His health failed again, and he went to the Continent, where he remained several years, writing there his "Up the Rhine." On his return he became editor of the New Monthly Magazine, to which he contributed the "Whimsicalities," which were published in book-form in 1843. In 1844 he started Hood's Magazine, for which his last poems were written. Among these were "The Song of the Shirt," "The Lay of the Laborer," and "The Bridge of Sighs," all written on the bed from which he never rose.

His illness and other misfortunes had reduced him to poverty, and a short time before he died he received a pension of £100, which was continued to his widow. He died on May 3, 1845, and was buried in Kensall Green.

Hood's story is sorrowful in contrasts. The life he lived was sadly at variance with the laughter he excited. The prince of punsters jested in his affliction and smiled through his suffering. The pathetic poems which he wrote in his last illness were at once the truest expres sion of himself and the noblest productions of his genius.

MISS KILMANSEGG AND HER PRECIOUS LEG.

A GOLDEN LEGEND.

"What is here?

Gold? yellow, glittering, precious gold?" Timon of Athens.

HER PEDIGREE.

To trace the Kilmansegg pedigree,
To the very root of the family tree,
Were a task as rash as ridiculous:
Through antediluvian mists as thick
As London fog such a line to pick
Were enough, in truth, to puzzle Old Nick,
Not to name Sir Harris Nicholas.

It wouldn't require much verbal strain
To trace the Kill-man, perchance to Cain;
But waiving all such digressions,
Suffice it, according to family lore,
A Patriarch Kilmansegg lived of yore,
Who was famed for his great possessions.

Tradition said he feathered his nest
Through an Agricultural interest
In the Golden Age of Farming;
When golden eggs were laid by the geese,
And Colchian sheep wore a golden fleece,
And golden pippins-the sterling kind
Of Hesperus-now so hard to find-
Made Horticulture quite charming!

A Lord of Land, on his own estate,
He lived at a very lively rate,

But his income would bear carousing:
Such acres he had of pasture and heath,
With herbage so rich from the ore beneath,
The very ewes' and lambkins' teeth
Were turned into gold by browsing.

He gave, without any extra thrift,
A flock of sheep for a birthday gift

To each son of his loins, or daughter;
And his debts-if debts he had-at will
He liquidated by giving each bill
A dip in Pactolian water.

'Twas said that even his pigs of lead,
By crossing with some by Midas bred,