And, smiling, deck its glossy neck
With forest flowers entwined.

'Twas after church-on Ascension day—
When organs ceased to sound,
Wiesbaden's people crowded gay
The deer-park's pleasant ground.

Here came a twelve years' married pair—
And with them wandered free

Seven sons and daughters, blooming fair,
A gladsome sight to see!

Their Wilhelm, little innocent,
The youngest of the seven,
Was beautiful as painters paint
The cherubim of heaven.

By turns he gave his hand, so dear,

To parent, sister, brother;

And each, that he was safe and near,

Confided in the other.

But Wilhelm loved the field-flowers bright,
With love beyond all measure;
And culled them with as keen delight
As misers gather treasure.

Unnoticed, he contrived to glide
Adown a greenwood alley,
By lilies lured that grew beside
A streamlet in the valley;

And each &c.-As they wandered along, a scattered band, each one thought that some other of the party was taking care of him.

And there, where under beech and birch
The rivulet meandered,

He strayed, till neither shout nor search
Could track where he had wandered.

Still louder, with increasing dread,
They called his darling name:
But 'twas like speaking to the dead—
An echo only came.

Hours passed till evening's beetle roams
And blackbird's songs begin;
Then all went back to happy homes,
Save Wilhelm's kith and kin.1

The night came on-all others slept
Their cares away till morn;

But, sleepless, all night watched and wept

That family forlorn.

Betimes the town-crier had been sent

With loud bell up and down; And told the afflicting accident

Throughout Wiesbaden's town.

The news reached Nassau's Duke-ere earth Was gladdened by the lark,

He sent a hundred soldiers forth

To ransack all his park.

But though they roused up beast and bird

From many a nest and den,

No signal of success was heard
From all the hundred men.

1 Kith and kin--friends and relations.

A second morning's light expands,
Unfound the infant fair;

And Wilhelm's household wring their hands,
Abandoned to despair.

But, haply, a poor artisan
Searched ceaselessly, till he
Found safe asleep the little one
Beneath a beechen tree.

His hand still grasped a bunch of flowers;
And-true, though wondrous-near,
To sentry his reposing hours,

There stood a female deer,

Who dipped her horns at all that passed
The spot where Wilhelm lay;
Till force was had to hold her fast,
And bear the boy away.

Hail! sacred love of childhood-hail !
How sweet it is to trace

Thine instinct in Creation's scale,
Even 'neath the human race!

To this poor wanderer of the wild,
Speech, reason were unknown-
And yet she watched a sleeping child,
As if it were her own!

Campbell.

THE 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 desert round!

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 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 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 ever been so;
Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go,
But the huts of hamlets 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;

A A

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.

Mrs. Hemans.

THE DOVE.

I HAD a dove, and the sweet dove died;
And I have thought it died of grieving :
Oh! what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied
With a silken thread of my own hands' weaving.
Sweet little Red-Feet! why should you die?—
Why would you leave me, sweet bird! why?
You lived alone in the forest tree;

Why, pretty thing, would you not live with me?
I kiss'd you oft, and gave you white peas !
Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

Keats.

THE MOTHER AND HER CHILD.

As to her lips the mother lifts her boy,

What answering looks of sympathy and joy !-
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word,
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard;
And ever, ever to her lap he flies,

When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise.
Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung,
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue,)
As with soft accents round her neck he clings,
And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings,