Love, beneath a myrtle bough, whispered,

“Why so fast ? And the roses on his brow wither'd as I pass'd.

I have heard the heifer lowing o'er the wild

wave's bed; I have seen the billow flowing where the cattle

fed. Where began my wanderings ? Mem'ry will not

say. Where shall rest my weary wings ? Science turns away.

Anonymous.

1815.-HOUSEHOLD TREASURES.

1816.—TO THE FIRST CUCKOO OF THE

YEAR.
The flowers were blooming fresh and fair,

The air was sweet and still ;
A sense of joy in all things beam'd

From woodland, dale, and hill ;
On every spray had fairies hung

Their sparkling lamps of dew,
When first across the meadows rung

Thy welcome voice, cuckoo :
“ Cuckoo! cuckoo !” No blither sound
In all the songs of birds is found.
The early sun was mildly bright,

The woods were sleeping still,
And scarce a chirp came from the trees,

Or murmur from the rill;
It was as Nature paused to hear

Thy pleasant song again,
And in her expectation hush'd

Each heart-rejoicing strain :
“Cuckoo! cuckoo !” No blither sound
In all the songs of birds is found.
And as thy voice rung through the air,

All Nature fairer grew :
The primrose had a brighter tint,

The violet deeper blue,
The cowslip hung a richer bloom,

More sweetly breathed the May,
And greener seem'd the very grass

In listening to thy lay: "Cuckoo ! cuckoo !” No blither sound In all the songs of birds is found.

Household treasures, household treasures,

Gems of worth, say, what are they ? Walls of jasper, doors of cedar,

Arras of superb array?
Caskets of the costliest jewels,

Cabinets of ancient store,
Shrines where Art her incense offers,

Volumes of profoundest lore ?

Household treasures, home's true jewels,

Deem I better far than those : Prattling children, blithe and ruddy

As the dew-bespangled rose. Tempt me not with gold of Ophir,

Wreathe not gems to deck my head; Winsome hearthlings, home's fond angels,

Are the things I crave instead. Sweet the song the skylark trilleth,

Bright the hue the rose assumes,
Pure the quiet-wooing lily

That upon the lakelet blooms;
But more sweet, more bright, and purer

Seem the lips and heart of youth;
Blessed seraphs, sent to utter

Syllables of love and truth.
Joyous creatures, choice possessions,

May-flowers in life's winter hour;
Beams of sunshine, chasing ever

Shadows that may cross the door; Drops of rain, when care or anguish

Parch the spirit's genial springs; Soothing minstrels, when unkindness

Snaps the heart's melodious strings.

And, wand'ring through the air, thy song

Was now afar, now near-
A song that in its airiness

Is witchery to hear.
And never is the spring complete

Without thy changeless voice.
And in thy coming to our woods,

1 O cuckoo, all rejoice. “Cuckoo ! cuckoo !” No blither sound In all the songs of birds is found.

J. A. Langford.

1817. — "RENDER TO CÆSAR THE

THINGS WHICH ARE CÆSAR'S.

Household treasures, household treasures,

Gems of worth, say, what are they? All that wealth or grandeur proffer,

Soon, alas ! must know decay ; But, 'midst amaranths unfading,

With the rose-stain'd cherubim, Happy children, gone before us, Swell the everlasting hymn.

J. Greet.

“Render to Cæsar things which Cæsar's are,

But to God God's.” Ah! me, how eagerly,

Rushing to the world-Cæsar's feet, do we Bring the red gold and frankincense from far, To render up! Gold of the heart's young

love Bartering for Mammon (prudence, its world.

name); Pure aspirations for base, fleeting fame; And for false joys of earth, a heaven abovo

What do we lay before "our Father's”

throne ? The broken heart the world hath trampled on, But could not heal; the bruised hopes flung

book From Cæsar's throne, when our reward we

lack; Hyssop and vinegar : How oft they be Our only tribute, Lord, reserved for Thee !

Mary C. Hume.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,

And a staunch old heart has he How closely he twineth, how close he clings,

To his friend the huge Oak Tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,

And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men's graves.

Creeping where grim Death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

1818.—THE IVY GREEN. Oh! a dainty plant is the Ivy green,

That creepeth o'er ruins old!
On right choice food are his meals, I ween,

In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decay'd,

To pleasure his dainty whim;
And the mouldering dust that years have made,
Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decay'd,

And nations have scatter'd been ; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade

From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days

Shall fatten on the past :
For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the Ivy's food at last.

Creeping on where Time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green!

Charles Dickens.-Born 1812.

The sudden silence, or the whispers low,
Or the old eyes dissolving at his woe,
Or anxious calls, or close of trembling palms,
Or maiden's sigh, that grief itself embalms :
But in the self-same fixed trance he kept,
Like one who on the earth had never stept.
Ay, even as dead-still as a marble man,
Frozen in that old tale Arabian.

slow

1819.-FROM “ENDYMION.” Who thus were ripe for high contemplating, Might turn their steps towards the sober ring Where sat Endymion and the aged priest 'Mong shepherds gone in eld, whose looks

increased The silvery setting of their mortal star. There they discoursed upon the fragile bar That keeps us from our homes ethereal ; And what our duties there : to nightly call Vesper, the beauty-crest of summer weather; To summon all the downiest clouds together For the sun's purple couch ; to emulate In ministering the potent rule of fate With speed of fire-tail'd exhalations; To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who cons Sweet poesy by moonlight : besides these, A world of other unguess'd offices. Anon they wander'd, by divine converse, Into Elysium ; vying to rehearse Each one his own anticipated bliss. One felt heart-certain that he could not miss His quick-gone love, among fair blossom'd

boughs, Where every zephyr-sigh pouts, and endows Her lips with music for the welcoming. Another wish'a, 'mid that eternal spring, To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails, Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond

vales : Who, suddenly, should stoop through the

smooth wind, And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind; And, ever after, through those regions be His messenger, his little Mercury. Some were athirst in soul to see again Their fellow-huntsmen o'er the wide cham

paign In times long past; to sit with them, and talk Of all the chances in their earthly walk; Comparing, joyfully, their plenteous stores Of happiness, to when upon the moors, Benighted, close they huddled from the cold, And shared their famish'd scrips. Thus all

out-told Their tond imaginations, -saving him Whose eyelids curtain'd up their jewels dim, Endymion : yet hourly had he striven To hide the cankering venom that had riven His fainting recollections. Now indeed His senses had swoon'd off: he did not heed

Who whispers him so pantingly and close ? Peona, his sweet sister: of all those, His friends, the dearest. Husling signs she

made, And breathed a sister's sorrow to persuade A yielding up, a cradling on her care. Her eloquence did breathe away the curse : She led him, like some midnight spirit nurse Of happy changes in emphatic dreams, Along a path between two little streams,Guarding his forehead, with her round elbow, From low-grown branches, and his footsteps From stumbling over stumps and hillocks

small; Until they came to where these streamlets

fali, With mingled bubblings and a gentle rush, Into a river, clear, brimful, and flush With crystal mocking of the trees and sky. A little shallop, floating there hard by, Pointed its beak over the fringed bank; And soon it lightly dipt, and rose, and sank, And dipt again, with the young couple's

weight,Peona guiding, through the water straight, Towards a bowery island opposite; Which gaining presently, she steered light Into a shady, fresh, and ripply cove, Where nested was an arbour, overwove By many a summer's silent fingering ; To whose cool bosom she was used to bring Her playmates, with their needle broidery, And minstrel memories of times gone by.

So she was gently glad to see him laid Under her favourite bower's quiet shade, On her own couch, new made of flower leaves, Dried carefully on the cooler side of sheaves When last the sun his autumn tresses shook, And the tann'd harvesters rich armfuls took. Soon was he quieted to slumbrous rest. But. ere it crept upon him, he had prest