Ah, 't were a lot too blest

Forever in thy coloured shades to stray;
Amidst the kisses of the soft southwest
To rove and dream for aye;

And leave the vain low strife

That makes men mad-the tug for wealth and power, The passions and the cares that wither life,

And waste its little hour.

AUTUMNAL HYMN OF THE HUSBANDMAN.

Now we rest from our toils, Lord, our labours are done,
Our meadows are bared to the kiss of the sun;
We have winnowed the wheat,-well our toil it repays,
And our oxen have eaten the husks of the maize.

We gathered our harvests; with strength in each limb Toiled the mower; the ripe grass bowed prostrate to him;

And the reaper, as nimbly he felled the proud grain, Was blither than those who wear sceptres and reign.

And the wheat blade was tall, and the full, golden ear Proclaimed that the months of rejoicing were near; The grape in rich clusters hung, promising mirth, And the boughs of the apple-tree slept on the earth.

Did we thank thee, then, God of the seasons? Oh no! We were prompt in accepting thy favours, but slow Were our lips to give thanks for the rich gifts, thy hand Showered thick on the maize-littered vales of our land.

Thou hast rained on us manna, Lord,-yet we are mute; Though summer's all smiles, of thy love are the fruit, Springs and autumns, as fair as the Orient boasts, Dawn on us, yet faint are our tongues, Lord of Hosts!

Now we raise our glad voices-in gratitude raise, And we waft on the beams of the morning our praise; We thank thee for golden grain gathered in shock, And the milk of the kine, and the fleece of the flock.

And we thank thee for limbs moving light to the task, For hearts beating high, though unwarmed of the flask, Fill us, Lord, with just sense of thy bounty, and give Health to us, and to all in the land where we live.

WOODS IN WINTER.

When winter winds are piercing chill,

And through the white-thorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill,

That over-brows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away

Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes.

On the gray maple's crusted bark
Its tender shoots the hoar-frost nips;
Whilst in the frozen fountain-hark!
His piercing beak the bittern dips.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,—
The crystal icicle is hung.

Where from their frozen urns mute springs
Pour out the river's gradual tide,

Shrilly the skater's iron rings,

And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas!-how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay ;
And winds were soft-and woods were green-
And the song ceased not with the day.

But still wild music is abroad,

Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; And gathered winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs, and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year-
I listen, and it cheers me long.

A SONG OF SAVOY.

As the dim twilight shrouds

The mountain's purple crest,

And summer's white and folded clouds
Are glowing in the west,
Loud shouts come up the rocky dell,

And voices hail the evening bell.

Faint is the goatherd's song,

And sighing comes the breeze: The silent river sweeps along

Amid its bending trees,—

And the full moon shines faintly there,
And music fills the evening air.

Beneath the waving firs

The tinkling cymbals sound;

And as the wind the foliage stirs,

I see the dancers bound

Where the green branches, arched above, Bend over this fair scene of love.

K2

And he is there, that sought
My young heart long ago!
But he has left me,-though I thought
He ne'er could leave me so.

Ah! lovers' vows,-how frail are they !—
And his-were made but yesterday.

Why comes he not? I call

In tears upon him yet;

"T were better ne'er to love at all,
Than love, and then forget!
Why comes he not? Alas! I should
Reclaim him still, if weeping could.

But see, he leaves the glade,
And beckons me away:

He comes to seek his mountain maid!-
I cannot chide his stay.

Glad sounds along the valley swell,
And voices hail the evening bell.

REBECCA TO ROWENA.

"Lady, I've looked upon thy face;
And beauty, kindness, virtue, grace,
Have all combined to make thee fair
O! may thy fortunes be as bright,