But now the scene is changed, and all

Is fancifully new;
The trees, last eve so straight and tall,

Are bending on the view,
And streams of living daylight fall

The silvery arches through.
The boughs are strung with glittering pearls,

As dewdrops bright and bland,
And there they gleam in silvery curls,

Like gems of Samarcand,
Seeming in wild fantastic whirls

The work of fairy land.
Each branch stoops meekly with the weight,

And in the light breeze swerves,
As if some viewless angel sate

Upon its graceful curves,
And made the fibres spring elate,

Thrilling the secret nerves.
Oh! I could dream the robe of heaven,

Pure as the dazzling snow,
Beaming as when to spirits given,

Had come in its stealthy flow,
From the sky at silent even,
For the morning's glorious show.

ANON.

FIELD FLOWERS. Ye field flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of nature, I dote upon you,

For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight,

Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for Julling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams, And

And of broken blades breathing their balm; While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note

Made music that sweetend the calm. Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June;

Of old ruinous castles ye tell: I thought it delightful your beauties to find When the magic of nature first breathed on my mind,

your blossoms were part of her spell. Even now what affections the violet awakes ; What loved little islands, twice seen in the lakes

Can the wild water-lily restore !
What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks;
What pictures of pebbles and minnowy brooks,

In the vetches that tangle the shore !
Earth's cultureless buds! to my heart ye were dear,
Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear,

Had scathed my existence's bloom ; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age, And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

CAMPBELL.

A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE. I saw her in the morn of hope, in life's delicious

spring, A radiant creature of the earth, just bursting on the

wing ; Elate and joyous as the lark when first it soars on high, Without a shadow in its path,-a cloud upon its sky. I see her yet—so fancy deems—her soft, unbraided

hair, Gleaming, like sunlight upon snow, above her foro.

head fair;

Her large dark eyes, of changing light, the winning

smile that play'd, In dimpling sweetness, round a mouth Expression's

self had made!

And light alike of heart and step, she bounded on her

way, Nor dream'd the flowers that round her bloom'd

would ever know decay ;She had no winter in her note, but evermore would

sing (What darker season had she proved?) of spring-of

only spring ! Alas, alas, that hopes like hers, so gentle and so

bright, The growth of many a happy year, one wayward

hour should blight ;Bow down her fair but fragile form, her brilliant

brow o'ercast, And make her beauty-like her bliss—a shadow of

the past ! Years came and went-we met again,—but what a

change was there! The glossy calmness of the eye, that whisper'd of

despair ;The fitful Aushing of the cheek,—the lips compress'd

and thin,The clench of the attenuate hands,-proclaim'd the

strife within!

Yet, for each ravaged charm of earth some pitying

power had given Beauty, of more than mortal birth,-a spell that

breathed of heaven ;And as she bent, resign’d and meek, beneath the

chastening blow, With all a martyr's fervid faith her features seem'd

to glow!

No wild reproach, no bitter word, in that sad hour

was spoken, For hopes deceived, for love betray'd, and plighted

pledges broken ;Like Him who for his murderers pray'd,-she wept,

but did not chide, And her last orisons arose for him for whom she died ! Thus, thus, too oft the traitor man repays fond

woman's truth; Thus blighting, in his wild caprice, the blossoms of

her youth: And sad it is, in griefs like these, o'er visions loved

and lost, That the truest and the tenderest heart must always suffer most!

A. A. WATTS.

TO A CHILD.
WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,

And curly pate, and merry eye,
And arm and shoulders round and sleek,

And soft and fair, thou urchin sly?
What boots it who, with sweet caresses,

First call’d thee his, or squire or hind ?
For thou in every wight that passes

Dost now a friendly playmate find!
Thy downcast glances, grave but cunning,

As fringed eyelids rise and fall,
Thy shyness, swiftly from me running,

"T is infantine coquetry all!
But far afield thou hast not flown,

With mocks and threats half-lisp'd, half-spoken, I feel thee pulling at my gown,

Of right good-will thy simple token!

And thou must laugh and wrestle too,

A mimic warfare with me waging, To make, as wily lovers do,

Thy after kindness more engaging ! The wilding rose, sweet as thyself,

And new-cropp'd daisies, are thy treasure ; I'd gladly part with worldly pelf,

To taste again thy youthful pleasure ! But yet, for all thy merry look,

Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming, When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook,

The weary spell or hornbook thumbing !
Well; let it be! through weal and woe,

Thou know'st not now thy future range;
Life is a motley shifting show,
And thou a thing of hope and change!

Miss BAILLIE.

POETRY THE world is full of Poetry—the air Is living with its spirit; and the waves Dance to the music of its melodies, And sparkle in its brightness. Earth is veil'd And mantled with its beauty; and the walls, That close the universe with crystal in, Are eloquent with voices, that proclaim The unseen glories of immensity, In harmonies, too perfect, and too high, For aught but beings of celestial mould, And speak to man in one eternal hymn Unfading beauty, and unyielding power. The year leads round the seasons, in a choir For ever charming, and for ever new; Blending the grand, the beautiful, the gay, The mournful and the tender, in one strain,