And musing by love's haunted rill,
Earth's" river of the blest,"

To see how sweetly heaven still,

Is mirror'd on its breast,
And feel thou, there, art nearer far
To that bright land of sun and star!

THE ALPINE FLOWERS.

BY MRS. SIGOURNEY.

MEEK dwellers 'mid yon terror-stricken cliffs!
With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips,
Whence are ye?-Did some white-wing'd mes-

senger

On Mercy's missions trust your timid germ
To the cold cradle of eternal snows?
Or, breathing on the callous icicles,
Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye?—

-Tree nor shrub

Dare that drear atmosphere: no polar pine
Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand,
Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribb'd ice,
And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him
Who bids you bloom unblanch'd amid the waste
Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils

O'er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the

verge

Of yawning gulfs, o'er which the headlong plunge
Is to eternity, looks shuddering up,

And marks ye in your placid loveliness-
Fearless, yet frail-and, clasping his chill hands,
Blesses your pencill'd beauty. 'Mid the pomp
Of mountain summits rushing on the sky,
And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe,
He bows to bind you drooping to his breast,
Inhales your spirit from the frost-wing'd gale,
And freer dreams of heaven.

THE MISTLETOE.

BY BARRY CORNWALL

WHEN winter nights grow long,
And winds without blow cold,

We sit in a ring round the warm wood-fire,
And listen to stories old!

And we try to look grave (as maids should be,)
When the men bring in boughs of the laurel-tree.
O, the Laurel, the evergreen tree!

The Poets have laurels-and why not we?

How pleasant, when night falls down,
And hides the wintry sun,

To see them come in to the blazing fire,
And know that their work is done;

While many bring in, with a laugh or rhyme,
Green branches of holly for Christmas time!
O the Holly, the bright green Holly,

It tells (like a tongue) that the times are jolly!

Sometimes-in our grave-house,

Observe, this happeneth not;

But, at times, the evergreen laurel boughs
And the holly are all forgot!

And then! what then? why, the men laugh low,

And hang up a branch of-the Mistletoe!

Oh, brave is the Laurel! and brave is the Holly!
But the Mistletoe banisheth melancholy!

Ah, nobody knows, nor ever shall know
What is done-under the Mistletoe!

11

TO THE PRIMROSE.

BY BIDLAKE.

PALE visitant of balmy spring,

Joy of the new-born year,

That bidd'st young hope new-plume his wing, Soon as thy buds appear:

While o'er the incense-breathing sky

The tepid hours first dare to fly,

And vainly woo the chilling breeze

That, bred in winter's frozen lap,
Still struggling chains the lingering sap
Within the widow'd trees.

Remote from towns, thy transient life
Is spent in skies more pure;
The suburb smoke, the seat of strife,
Thou canst but ill endure.

Coy rustic thou art blooming found
Where artless nature's charms abound,

Sweet neighbour of the chanter ril!;
Well pleased to sip the silvery tide,
Or nodding o'er the fountain's side,
Self-gazing, look thy fill;

Or, on the dingle's shadowy steep,
The gaudy furze beneath,
Thy modest beauties sweetly peep,
Thy chaster odours breathe.
From luxury we turn aside,

From wealth and ostentatious pride,

With many an emblematic thorn, Thy humbler mien well pleased to meet ; Like competence in blest retreat,

Thy smiles the spring adorn.

What though thou boast no splendid hue
Of Flora's prouder race?

To me more fair art thou to view,
In all thy simple grace :
Thine innocence and beauty meek,
More like my Celestina's cheek,

Where all the modest virtues play ;
Expression beaming from her eye,
In cherub smiles of chastity,

With mild and temper'd ray.

Yet treasures lurk within thy lips
To glad the spoiler bee,
Who not with idle errand sips,

Or wanton vagrancy.

Ah! blest is he who temperance tries,
Simplicity above disguise,