But oh, take heed!-for see-by dream-revealingHow Thoughts of power with angels go attended, Outfleeing never the calm pen that writes

Their history for Heaven!"

The sun shone in

Upon my wind-stirr'd curtains, and I woke.

And this had been a dream. 'Tis sometimes so:

We dream ourselves what we have striven to be,

And hear what had been well for us to hear,

Did our dreams shadow what we are.

DESPONDENCY IN SPRING.

BEAUTIFUL robin! with thy feathers red Contrasting, flower-like, with the soft green tree, Making thy little flights, as thou art led

By things that tempt a simple one like thee.

I would that thou couldst warble me to tears

As lightly as the birds of other years!

Idly to lie beneath an April sun,

Pressing the perfume from the tender grass;
To watch a joyous rivulet leap on

With the clear tinkle of a music glass,
And, as I saw the early robin pass,

To hear him through his little compass run

Only with joys like these to overflow

Is happiness my heart will no more know.

ΤΟ

:

THY love is like the thread of a new moon
Drawn on the faint blue of a break in clouds :-
The thunder of a storm not surely o'er
Murmurs beneath it, and the lightning gleams
Brokenly still, in one mass dark and near,
As if it would close turbulently o'er
And make all black again. But, motionless,
As 'twere an angel's shallop in a calm,
The bent moon floats, and its round freight of hope
Lies in its breast-to unbelieving eyes

A shadow that can never grow more fair,—
But, to the clearer-sighted stars, a promise
Of brightness that will wax to fill a heaven.

THE TORN HAT.

"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 uncheck'd, unbidden joy,

His dread of books and love of fun,

And it is very radness.

And Te is I II LS LT.

When every true of mis is And at when you would call him Fr That is begu presence tris me mot. His shot may ring upon the

His voice be echoed in the hall.

His merry lang like masic trig And I unheeding bear 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 meaning trace-
Remembering a thousand things

Which pass'd me on those golden wings, Which time has fetter'd 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 ardor 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 !

TO LAURA W—, TWO YEARS OF AGE.

BRIGHT be the skies that cover thee,
Child of the sunny brow-

Bright as the dream flung over thee-
By all that meets thee now-
Thy heart is beating joyously,
Thy voice is like a bird's-

And sweetly breaks the melody
Of thy imperfect words.

I know no fount that gushes out
As gladly as thy tiny shout.

I would that thou might'st ever be
As beautiful as now,—

That time might ever leave as free
Thy yet unwritten brow:

I would life were "all poetry”
To gentle measure set,

That nought but chasten'd melody
Might stain thine eye of jet-
Nor one discordant note be spoken,
Till God the cunning harp hath broken.

I would but deeper things than these
With woman's lot are wove :
Wrought of intensest sympathies,
And nerved by purest love-
By the strong spirit's discipline,
By the fierce wrong forgiven,
By all that wrings the heart of sin,
Is woman won to heaven.

"Her lot is on thee," lovely child-
God keep thy spirit undefiled!

I fear thy gentle loveliness,

Thy witching tone and air,

Thine eye's beseeching earnestness