TIME'S CHANGES. Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird On summer's eve; In outward beauty undecayed, We mourn for thee, when blind, blank night We pine for thee, when morn's first light The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, And though, perchance, a smile may gleam It doth not own, whate'er may seem, We miss thy small step on the stair;— Farewell, then-for a while, farewell- It cannot be that long we dwell, Time's shadows like the shuttle flee; TIME'S CHANGES. I SAW her once-so freshly fair, 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, The very image of its mother, Her thoughtless, sinless look had banished, And from her cheeks the roseate glow Of girlhood's balmy morn had vanished; Lay something softer, fonder, deeper, I saw her thrice-Fate's dark decree As even my reveries portrayed her; 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, A glorious mould of fading clay, I gazed-my heart was like to burst- FAREWELL, OUR FATHERS' LAND. Ah! could I hear thee!-desolate and lonely I start from out my reverie, to know 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, 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; MARY DHU. SWEET, sweet is the rose-bud But sweeter art thou, My Mary Dhu. Oh! the skies of night, As my Mary Dhu. The clouds of sorrow depart from me: 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. 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, It wouldn't require much verbal strain Tradition said he feathered his nest A Lord of Land, on his own estate, But his income would bear carousing: He gave, without any extra thrift, To each son of his loins, or daughter; 'Twas said that even his pigs of lead, |