To the first golden mellowness, a star
Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight
Burst from her lips, and, putting up her hands,
Her simple thought broke forth expressively, -
"Father, dear father, God has made a star."

TO A CHILD DURING SICKNESS. - Leigh Hunt.

SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,
My little, patient boy!

And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.
I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.

Thy sidelong, pillowed meekness,

Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid,
The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,
These, these are things that may
Dread memories for years.

demand

Sorrows I've had, severe ones
I will not think of now;
And calmly, midst my dear ones,
Have wasted with dry brow;
But when thy fingers press,
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness,-
The tears are in their bed.

Ah! first-born of thy mother,
When life and hope were new!
Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father, too!
My light where'er I

go,

My bird when prison-bound,
My hand-in-hand companion, -no,
My prayers shall hold thee round,

To say, "He has departed,"
"His voice," "his face,"
To feel impatient-hearted,
Yet feel we must bear on;
Ah! I could not endure
To whisper of such woe,
Unless I felt this sleep insure
That it will not be so.

" is gone,"

Yes, still he's fixed and sleeping!
This silence too the while,
Its very hush and creeping
Seem whispering us a smile;
Something divine and dim
Seems going by one's ear,
Like parting wings of cherubim,

Who say,

THE DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.— Collins.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring

Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And youthful virgins own their love.

No withered witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew; The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The redbreast oft at evening's hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gathered flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell;
Or 'midst the chase on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell;

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Beloved, till life can charm no more;
And mourned, till Pity's self be dead.

THE PASSAGE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.

MANY a year is in its grave,
Since I crossed this restless wave:
And the evening, fair as ever,
Shines on ruin, rock, and river.

Then, in this same boat, beside,
Sat two comrades, old and tried;
One with all a father's truth,
One with all the fire of youth.

One on earth in silence wrought,
And his grave in silence sought;
But the younger, brighter form
Passed in battle and in storm!

So, whene'er I turn my eye
Back upon the days gone by,

Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me,
Friends who closed their course before me.

Yet what binds us, friend to friend,
But that soul with soul can blend?
Soul-like were those hours of yore;
Let us walk in soul once more!

Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee;
Take, I give it willingly;

For, invisible to thee,

Spirits twain have crossed with me!

THAT EACH THING IS HURT OF ITSELF. - Old English Poetry.

WHY fearest thou the outward foe,

When thou thyself thy harm doth feed?

Of grief or hurt, of pain or woe,

Within each thing is sown the seed.

So fine was never yet the cloth,

No smith so hard his iron did beat,
But the one consuméd was by moth,
T'other with canker all to fret.

The knotty oak, and wainscoat old,
Within doth eat the silly worm;
Even so a mind in envy rolled
Always within itself doth burn.

Thus everything that nature wrought
Within itself his hurt doth bear;
No outward harm need to be sought,
Where enemies be within so near.

THE KING OF THE CROCODILES.-Southey.

Now, woman, why without your veil?
And wherefore do you look so pale?
And, woman, why do you groan so sadly,
And wherefore beat your bosom madly?"

"O, I have lost my darling boy, In whom my soul had all its joy; And I for sorrow have torn my veil; And sorrow hath made my very heart pale.

"O, I have lost my darling child,
And that's the loss that makes me wild;
He stooped to the river down to drink,
And there was a crocodile by the brink.