Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring,
O'er thy green pathway their colours fling;
Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon;
What if to droop and to perish soon?
Nature hath mines of such wealth; and thou
Never wilt prize its delights as now!

For a day is coming to quell the tone
That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one!
And to dim thy brow with a touch of care,
Under the gloss of its clustering hair;
And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes
Into the stillness of autumn skies;

And to teach thee that grief hath her needful part, 'Midst the hidden things of each human heart!

Yet shall we mourn, gentle child! for this?
Life hath enough of yet holier bliss!
Such be thy portion! the bliss to look,
With a reverent spirit, through Nature's book;
By fount, by forest, by river's line,
To track the paths of a love divine;
To read its deep meanings-to see and hear
God in earth's garden-and not to fear.

MRS. HEMANS.

THE NEGLECTED CHILD.

I NEVER was a favourite,
My mother never smiled
On me, with half the tenderness
That bless'd her fairer child:
I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek,
While fondled on her knee;
I've turn'd away to hide my tears,-
There was no kiss for me!

And yet I strove to please, with all
My little store of sense;
I strove to please, and infancy
Can rarely give offence;
But when my artless efforts met
A cold, ungentle check,
I did not dare to throw myself
In tears upon her neck.

How blessed are the beautiful!
Love watches o'er their birth;
Oh, beauty! in my nursery

I learn'd to know thy worth,-
For even there, I often felt
Forsaken and forlorn;

And wish'd-for others wish'd it tooI never had been born!

I'm sure I was affectionate,-
But in my sister's face
There was a look of love, that claim'd
A smile or an embrace;

But when I raised my lip, to meet
The pressure children prize,
None knew the feelings of my heart-
They spoke not in my eyes.

But, oh! that heart too keenly felt
The anguish of neglect;
I saw my sister's lovely form

With gems and roses deck'd;
I did not covet them; but oft,
When wantonly reproved,
I envied her the privilege
Of being so beloved.

But soon a time of triumph came-
A time of sorrow too-

For sickness o'er my sister's form
Her venom'd mantle threw-

The features once so beautiful,
Now wore the hue of death;
And former friends shrank fearfully
From her infectious breath.

"Twas then unwearied, day and night,
I watch'd beside her bed,
And fearlessly upon my breast
I pillow'd her poor head.
She lived-she loved me for my care!
My grief was at an end;
I was a lonely being once,
But now I have a friend!

T. H. BAILY.

A POET'S FAVOURITE. Oн she is guileless as the birds

That sing beside the summer brooks; With music in her gentle words,

With magic in her winsome looks. With beauty by all eyes confess'd,

With grace beyond the reach of art, And, better still than all the rest,

With perfect singleness of heart: With kindness like a noiseless spring That faileth ne'er in heat or cold; With fancy, like the wild dove's wing, As innocent as it is bold.

With sympathies that have their birth

Where woman's best affections lie; With hopes that hover o'er the earth,

But fix their resting-place on high. And if, with all that thus exalts

A soul by sweet thoughts sanctified, This dear one has her human faults, They ever" lean to virtue's side."

ANON.

AURA VENI.

BALMY freshness! heavenly air!
Cool, oh! cool this burning brow-
Loose the fiery circlet there-

Blessed thing! I feel ye now.

Blessed thing! depart not yet

Let me, let me quaff my fill: Leave me not, my soul, to fret

With longing for what mocks me still.

O! the weary, weary nights

I've lain awake and thought of thee! Of clouds and corn, and all sweet sights Of shade and sunshine, flower and tree.

Of running waters rippling clear,

Of merry birds, and gipsey camp, Then how I loathed to see and hear

That ticking watch-that sickly lamp.

And long'd at least for light again;

For day-that brought no change to me; The weight was on my heart and brain, God might remove it-only He.

But now and then the fount of tears,

So seeming dry, was free to flow; 'Twas worth the happiness of years,

That short-lived luxury of woe! And in the midst of all my pain

I knew I was not quite forgot; I knew my cry was not in vainSo I was sad, but fainted not.

And now His merciful command

Hath lighten'd what was worst to bear; And given of better days at hand A foretaste in this blessed air.

MISS BOWLES

FIRST INQUIRIES.

FATHER, Who made all the beautiful flowers,
And the bright green shades of the summer bowers?
Is it the warm beaming sun that brings

The emerald leaves and the blossomings-
Flowers to the field and fruits to the tree?
-Not the sun, my dear child, but one greater than he!

Father, whose hand form'd the blue-tinted sky,
Its colour'd clouds and its radiancy?

What are those stars we view shining in air?
What power ever keeps them suspended there?
Was it man form'd the skies and the glories we see?
-Not man, my dear child, but one greater than he!

Father, from whence came our own lovely land,
With its rivers and seas, and its mountains so grand;
Its tall frowning rocks and its shell-spangled shore?
Were these not the works of some people of yore
?
Owe these not their birth to man's own good decree?
-Not to man, my dear child, but one greater than he!

From God came the trees, and the flowers, and the earth,

To God do the mountains and seas owe their birth;
His glory alone, love, created on high,

The sun, moon, and stars, and the beautiful sky.
It was he form'd the land, and no people of yore.
Bend thy knee, my sweet child, and that God now
adore.

C. SWAIN.

VERSES INSCRIBED IN AN ALBUM.

WHY write my name 'midst songs and flowers,
To meet the eye of lady gay?

I have no voice for lady's bowers-
For page like this no fitting lay.