Still on my worn cheek playeth
The restless breeze!

Still on its freshness strayeth
Between the trees.

Still the blue streamlet gusheth-
Still the broad river rusheth-
Still the calm silence husheth
The heart's disease :-

But who shall bring our meetings
Back again?

What shall recall thy greetings-
Loved in vain !

Summer's gone!

SONNET.

ANONYMOUS.

THERE was a soft enchantment in her eye,
That charmed all it met; and round it wrought
A sympathetic incense of pure thought,
As in some fane of loveliest sanctity-
Such was the look of angel from on high
Emblazon'd Heav'n new-lighted with glad feet,
Blessing and blest, and bent on errand sweet;
Radiant with love, and beaming charity.-
Such was the light that shone o'er leaf and flower
In sinless Eden, when the gentlest pair,
(In their Creator's image planted there)
Together walked, or sat in sylvan bower;
Or, in the moon's mild lustre wond'ring stood;
And their great Maker "saw that all was good."

SONG OF THE MONTH.

ANONYMOUS.

COME to thy home, beloved!

The time for thy toil is ending : I've made thee a rest, come see, Where our last few flowers are bending A sweet farewell to thee !

Come to thy home, beloved!

Come to thy home, beloved!

The mists they are thick, remember;
We've no autumn's mellow sun,
It is dull and drear November,
And thy way a darksome one,
Come to thy home, beloved!

Come to thy home, beloved!

There's an eye that longs to meet thee;

And the fire is blazing clear,

And O! such a heart to greet thee,

Will that not tempt thee here?

Come to thy home, beloved!

Come to thy home, beloved!

Come! how the vapour thickens.

Will this watching ne'er be past?

There's a footstep.-Hark! it quickens.

Ah! thou art here at last

Here, at thy home, beloved.

WHERE SHALL WE MAKE HER GRAVE?

MRS, HEMANS.

WHERE shall we make her grave?
Oh! where the wild flowers wave
In the free air!

Where shower and singing-bird
Midst the young leaves are heard-
There-lay her there!

Harsh was the world to her

Now may sleep minister

Balm for each ill:

Low on sweet Nature's breast,

Let the meek heart find rest,
Deep, deep and still!

Murmur glad waters, by!
Faint gales, with happy sigh,

Come wandering o'er

That green and mossy bed,

Where, on a gentle head,

Storms beat no more!

What though for her in vain
Falls now the bright spring-rain,
Plays the soft wind;

Yet still, from where she lies,
Should blessed breathings rise,
Gracious and kind!

Therefore let song and dew
Thence in the heart renew

Life's vernal glow!

And o'er that holy earth

Scents of the violet's birth

Still come and go!

Oh! then where wild-flowers wave,
Make me her mossy grave,

In the free air!

Where shower and singing-bird
Midst the young leaves are heard-
There-lay her there!

HOPE COMES AGAIN.

MOORE.

HOPE comes again, to this heart long a stranger-
Once more she sings me her flattering strain ;
But hush, gentle siren, for, ah, there's less danger
In still suffering on, than in hoping again.

Long, long in sorrow too deep for repining,
Gloomy, but tranquil, this bosom hath lain :
And joy coming now, like a sudden light shining
O'er eyelids long darkened, would bring me but pain.

Fly, then, ye visions, that hope would shed o'er me-
Lost to the future, my sole chance of rest
Now lies, not in dreaming of bliss that's before me,
But, ah, in forgetting how once I was blest!

VERY GOOD COMPANY.

BARRY CORNWALL.

SING! Who sings

To her who weareth a hundred rings
Ah, who is this lady fine?

The VINE, boys, the VINE!
The mother of mighty Wine.
A roamer is she

O'er wall and tree;

And sometimes very good company.

Drink!-Who drinks

To her who blusheth, and never thinks
Ah, who is this maid of thine?
The GRAPE, boys, the GRAPE!

O, never let her escape

Until she be turned to Wine

For better is she

Than vine can be,

And very, very good company

Dream!-Who dreams

Of the god who governs a thousand streams?

Ah, who is this spirit fine?

'Tis WINE, boys, WINE!

God Bacchus, a friend of mine.

O better is he

Than grape or tree,

And best of all, good company