GAY, guiltless pair, What seek ye from the fields of heaven

Ye have no need of prayer, Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

Why perch ye here, Where mortals to their Maker bend

Can your pure spirits fear The God ye never could offend ?

Ye never knew
The crimes for which we come to weep.

Penance is not for you,
Blessed wanderers of the upper deep.

To you 't is given To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays;

Beneath the arch of heaven To chirp away a life of praise.

DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOWS.

(Translation.) The rain-drops plash, and the dead leaves fall,

On spire and cornice and mould ; The swallows gather, and twitter and call, “ We must follow the summer, comeone, come all,

For the winter is now so cold." Just listen awhile to the wordy war,

As to whither the way shall tend, Says one, “I know the skies are fair And myriad insects float in air

Where the ruins of Athens stand.
“And every year when the brown leaves fall,

In a niche of the Parthenon
I build my nest on the corniced wall,
In the trough of a devastating ball

From the Turk's besieging gun."
Says another, “My cosey home I fit

On a Smyrna grande café,
Where over the threshold Hadji sit,

And smoke their pipes and their coffee sip, | Dreaming the hours away."

The sky is overcast,
Yet stars shall rise at last,

Brighter for darkness past,
And angels' silver voices stir the air.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

Another says, “I prefer the nave

Of a temple of Baalbec ; There my little ones lie when the palm-trees wave, And, perching near on the architrave,

I fill each open beak."
" Ah !” says the last, “I build my nest

Far up on the Nile's green shore,
Where Memnon raises his stony crest,
And turns to the sun as he leaves his rest,

But greets him with song no more.. “In his ample neck is a niche so wide,

And withal so deep and free,
A thousand swallows their nests can hide,
And a thousand little ones rear beside, –

Then come to the Nile with me.”

THE NIGHTINGALE. The rose looks out in the valley,

And thither will I go !
To the rosy vale, where the nightingale

Sings his song of woe.
The virgin is on the river-side,

Culling the lemons pale :
Thither, —- yes ! thither will I go,
To the rosy vale, where the nightingale

Sings his song of woe.

They go, they go, to the river and plain,

To ruined city and town,
They leave me alone with the cold again,
Beside the tomb where my joys are lain,
With hope like the swallows flown.

GAUTIER (French).

The fairest fruit her hand hath culled,

"T is for her lover all : Thither, - yes ! thither will I go, To the rosy vale, where the nightingale

Sings his song of woe.