improvement nor corruption modifies the powers and pleasures of those humbler objects of God's goodness, which partake with us in all the luxuries of earthly elements; and, if we believe the scriptures, the date of whose existence is coeval with ours —therefore their voices speak to us of all antiquity, and the past years of hoary Time are commemorated by the faint utterance of an insect's hum-for that very sound has been propagated by innumerable multiplications ever since Adam gave names to every living creature.

The beautiful economy of bees has always been a theme for admiration to the lovers of nature. The symmetry and excellent contrivance of their cells, their order and agreement in carrying on their work, the presiding function of the queen bee, their apparent forecast, and their perseverance in accumulating their sweet food, exhibits an image of happy human society, and has often been held up as a model for the imitation of rational beings. The suggestion that bees were once stingless, is a poetic superstition. According to the Bible, man was happy and innocent in the first days of his existence, but when he disobeyed God he became subject not only to misery but to violent passions. Some poets have represented that brute animals exhibited a sort of sympathy with the fate of man, and that different tribes began to prey upon others when human beings became liable to sin and its punishment. Of that time, Milton says,

On bird, beast, air;

The bird of Jove, stooped from his aery tour,
Two birds of gavest plume before him drove ;
Down from a hill the beast that reigns in woods,
First hunter then, pursued a gentle brace,

Goodliest of all the forest, hart and hind."

But before this "all creatures met in peace from fierceness free," says Mr. Wordsworth-A Golden Age is the pretty fiction of poets more ancient than Mr. Wordsworth-It never existed— it supposes universal peace in nature's realm; but in respect to brutes, it could not possibly be, because those which subsist on animal food, have organs to seize and to destroy other animals, and appetites given to them by the Author of nature which demand animal food to sustain their life.

THE FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN.

It is said by Mr. Hearne, a traveller among the Indian tribes who inhabit the northern regions of North America, that when the Indians, in considerable companies, undertake journeys on foot, if one of their number becomes unable through illness or fatigue to proceed with the travellers, that individual is left behind with a fire and a few articles of sustenance, and in this state languishes and dies. Mr. Wordsworth supposes a poor Indian woman to have been left thus, and in these pathetic verses has expressed what might be her distressed feelings in this situation. "Before I see another day,

Oh let my body die away!

In sleep I heard the northern gleams;
The stars were mingled with my dreams;
In rustling conflict through the skies,
I heard, and saw the flashes drive;
And yet they are upon my eyes,
And yet I am alive.

Before I see another day,
Oh let my body die away!

My fire is dead: it knew no pain;
Yet is it dead, and I remain.
All stiff with ice the ashes lie;
And they are dead, and I will die.

When I was well, I wished to live.

For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire;
But they to me no joy can give,
No pleasure now, and no desire.
Then here contented will I lie!
Alone I cannot fear to die.

Alas! ye might have dragged me on

Another day, a single one!

Too soon I yielded to despair;

Why did ye listen to my prayer?

When ye were gone my limbs were stronger

And oh how grievously I rue.

That afterwards a little longer,

My friends, I did not follow you!

For strong and without pain I lay,

My friends, when ye were gone away.

My child! they gave thee to another,
A woman who was not thy mother.
When from my arms my babe they took
On me how strangely did he look!
Through his whole body something ran,
A most strange working did I see ;
-As if he strove to be a man,

That he might pull the sledge for me.
And then he stretched his arms, how wild!
Oh mercy! like a helpless child.

My little joy! my little pride!
In two days more I must have died.
Then do not weep and grieve for me;
I feel I must have died with thee.
Oh wind, that o'er my head art flying
The way my friends their course did bend,
I should not feel the pain of dying,
Could I with thee a message send !
Too soon, my friends, ye went away;
For I had many things to say.

I'll follow you across the snow:
Ye travel heavily and slow;
In spite of all my weary pain,
I'll look upon your tents again.
-My fire is dead, and snowy white
The water which beside it stood;
The wolf has come to me to-night,
And he has stolen away my food.'
For ever left alone am I,

Then wherefore should I fear to die?

In sleep I heard the northern gleams. This alludes to the Aurora Borealis in English, the Morning of the North. In countries which lie far north, as Lapland, Greenland, &c., the heavens on the north side, often exhibit a brilliant white light, which is sometimes the same in lustre for many hours; and at other times long jets of light are thrown up, which vanish and are succeeded by others. It is sometimes imagined that these northern gleams are accompanied by explosive sounds, these are what the dying Indian woman fancies she heard.

22

THE SOLITARY REAPER.

In the Highlands of Scotland women perform some of the lighter labours of the field. They beguile their labour by singing in the Gaelic tongue-sometimes, as Mr. Wordsworth supposes, of battles long ago, and sometimes familiar matter of to-day. "Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here or gently pass!

Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
Oh listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chaunt
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt
Among Arabian sands:

No sweeter voice was ever heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain
That has been, or may be again?

Whate'er the theme the maiden sung,
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work
And o'er her sickle bending;
I listened-motionless and still:
And as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.

ANDREW MARVELL.

Born 1620-Died 1678.

Andrew Marvell is little known as a poet, but the poetry which he left, according to Mr. Campbell, is worthy of higher consideration than has been bestowed upon it. He lived in the time of Oliver Cromwell, and was a sincere republican, but he held a seat in the British parliament after the restoration of the Stuarts, and is remarkable for the independence and honesty with which he avowed his sentiments. He had visited foreign countries, had studied and meditated much: thus his conversation was adorned with original thought and various knowledge; and as his manners were simple but polished, he was in his private intercourse singularly agreeable. Charles II. once met with this respectable man, and being struck with him, thought he would be a valuable acquisition to the royalists-To gain Marvell's favour the King sent him a present of money, which was refused, and Mr. Marvell giving a rational and dignified exposition of his sentiments, preferred his poverty with integrity to the favour of princes.

This excellent man loved poetry, and vindicated Milton when his character was aspersed. Like Milton he was in favour of liberty, and he sympathized with those who were compelled to emigrate to foreign lands that they might enjoy freedom of conscience. In 1620, the famous emigration to New-England took place. One year before that time a small company of religious persons, who were not permitted to worship God in England in the manner which seemed to them right, removed to the Bermuda islands. These islands are in a healthful and pleasant climate, but they have never had many inhabitants-still the first English who went thither, anticipated much satisfaction in their retreat. Mr. Marvell wrote a song which may be supposed to express the grateful emotions of these voyagers as they entered their desired haven.

THE EMIGRANTS.

Where the remote Bermudas ride,

In ocean's bosom unespied;
From a small boat, that rowed along,
The list'ning winds received this song.

What should we do but sing his praise,

That led us through the watery maze,