THE TORN HAT.

(A PICTURE BY SULLY.)

"A leaf

Fresh flung upon a river, that will dance
Upon the wave that stealeth out its life,
Then sink of its own heaviness."

PHILIP SLINGSBY.

THERE'S Something in a noble boy,

A brave, free-hearted, careless one, With his unchecked, unbidden joy,

His dread of books and love of fun, And in his clear and ready smile, Unshaded by a thought of guile,

And unrepressed by sadness

Which brings me to my childhood back, As if I trod its very track,

And felt its very gladness.

And yet it is not in his play,

When every trace of thought is lost, And not when you would call him gay, That his bright presence thrills me most.

His shout may ring upon the hill, His voice be echoed in the hall,

His merry laugh like music trill, And I in sadness hear it all

For, like the wrinkles on my brow, I scarcely notice such things now~ But when, amid the earnest game,

He stops, as if he music heard, And, heedless of his shouted name As of the carol of a bird,

Stands gazing on the empty air

As if some dream were passing there-
'Tis then that on his face I look,
His beautiful but thoughtful face,
And, like a long-forgotten book,
Its sweet, familiar meanings trace,

Remembering a thousand things

Which passed me on those golden wings,

Which time has fettered now

Things that came o'er me with a thrill,

And left me silent, sad, and still,

And threw upon my brow

A holier and a gentler cast,

That was too innocent to last.

'Tis strange how thought upon a child
Will, like a presence, sometimes press,
And when his pulse is beating wild,
And life itself is in excess-

When foot and hand, and ear and eye,
Are all with ardour straining high-
How in his heart will spring
A feeling whose mysterious thrall
Is stronger, sweeter far than all;

And on its silent wing,

How with the clouds he'll float away,

As wandering and as lost as they!

APRIL.

"A violet by a mossy stone,
Half hidden from the eye,
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky."

WORDSWORTH.

I HAVE found violets. April hath come on, And the cool winds feel softer, and the rain Falls in the beaded drops of summer time. You may hear birds at morning, and at eve The tame dove lingers till the twilight falls, Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing in His beautiful bright neck, and, from the hills, A murmur like the hoarseness of the sea

Tells the release of waters, and the earth

Sends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leaves Are lifted by the grass-and so I know

That Nature, with her delicate ear, hath heard The dropping of the velvet foot of Spring. Take of my violets! I found them where

The liquid South stole o'er them, on a bank That leaned to running water. There's to me

A daintiness about these early flowers

That touches me like poetry. They blow
With such a simple loveliness among

The common herbs of pasture, and breathe out
Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts
Whose beatings are too gentle for the world.
I love to go in the capricious days

Of April and hunt violets; when the rain
Is in the blue cups trembling, and they nod
So gracefully to the kisses of the wind.

It may be deem'd too idle, but the young
Read nature like the manuscript of heaven,
And call the flowers its poetry. Go out!

Ye spirits of habitual unrest,