We may find it where a hedge-row showers its blossoms o'er our way,

Or a cottage window sparkles forth in the last red light of day.

We may find it where a spring shines clear beneath an aged tree,

With the foxglove o'er the water's glass, borne downwards by the bee;

Or where a swift and sunny gleam on the birchen stems is thrown,

As a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copses green and lone.

wrote, than dwelling on what was painful and depressing, however beautifully and touchingly such subjects might be treated of. This message was faithfully transmitted, and almost by return of post, Mrs Hemans (who was then residing in Wales), sent to the kind friend to whom it had been forwarded, the poem of “Our Daily Paths," requesting it might be given to Mr Stewart, with an assurance of her gratitude for the interest he took in her writings, and alleging as the reason of the mournful strain which pervaded them, "that a cloud hung over her life which she could not always rise above."

The letter reached Mr Stewart just as he was stepping into the carriage, to leave his country-residence (Kinneil House, the property of the Duke of Hamilton) for Edinburghthe last time, alas! his presence was ever to gladden that happy home, as his valuable life was closed very shortly afterward. The poem was read to him by his daughter on his way to Edinburgh, and he expressed himself in the highest degree charmed and gratified with the result of his suggestions; and some of the lines which pleased him more particularly were often repeated to him during the few remaining weeks of his life.

We may find it in the winter boughs, as they cross the cold, blue sky,

While soft on icy pool and stream their pencil'd shadows lie,

When we

look upon their tracery, by the fairy frostwork bound,

Whence the flitting redbreast shakes a shower of crystals to the ground.

Yes! beauty dwells in all our paths-but sorrow too is there;

How oft some cloud within us dims the bright, still summer air!

When we carry our sick hearts abroad amidst the joyous things,

That through the leafy places glance on many-colour'd wings,

With shadows from the past we fill the happy woodland shades,

And a mournful memory of the dead is with us in the glades;

And our dream-like fancies lend the wind an echo's plaintive tone

Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laughter gone.

But are we free to do even thus-to wander as we

will

Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o'er the breezy hill?

No! in our daily paths lie cares, that ofttimes bind us fast,

While from their narrow round we see the golden day fleet past.

They hold us from the woodlark's haunts, and violet dingles, back,

And from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the shining river's track;

They bar us from our heritage of spring-time, hope, and mirth,

And weigh our burden'd spirits down with the cumbering dust of earth.

Yet should this be?-Too much, too soon, despondingly we yield!

A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the field!

A sweeter by the birds of heaven-which tell us, in their flight,

Of One that through the desert air for ever guides them right.

Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid vain conflicts cease?

Ay, when they commune with themselves in holy hours of peace;

And feel that by the lights and clouds through which our pathway lies,

By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training for the skies!

THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS.

SILENT and mournful sat an Indian chief,

In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb:

His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief,
And his arms folded in majestic gloom;

And his bow lay unstrung, beneath the mound
Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around.

For a pale cross above its greensward rose,
Telling the cedars and the pines that there
Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes,
And lifted from the dust a voice of
prayer.
Now all was hush'd-and eve's last splendour shone
With a rich sadness on th' attesting stone.

There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild,
And he, too, paused in reverence by that grave,
Asking the tale of its memorial, piled

Between the forest and the lake's bright wave;
Till, as a wind might stir a wither'd oak,
On the deep dream of age his accents broke.

And the grey chieftain, slowly rising, said—
"I listen'd for the words, which, years ago,
Pass'd o'er these waters: though the voice is fled
Which made them as a singing fountain's flow,
Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track,
Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back.

"Ask'st thou of him whose house is lone beneath? I was an eagle in my youthful pride,

When o'er the seas he came, with summer's breath, To dwell amidst us, on the lake's green side. Many the times of flowers have been since thenMany, but bringing nought like him again!

"Not with the hunter's bow and spear he came,
O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe;
Not the dark glory of the woods to tame,
Laying their cedars, like the corn-stalks, low;
But to spread tidings of all holy things,
Gladd'ning our souls, as with the morning's wings.

"Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met,

I and my brethren that from earth are gone, Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet

Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone? He told of one, the grave's dark bands who broke, And our hearts burn'd within us as he spoke.

"He told of far and sunny lands, which lie

Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell: Bright must they be !—for there are none that die, And none that weep, and none that say 'Farewell!' He came to guide us thither; but away The Happy call'd him, and he might not stay.

"We saw him slowly fade-athirst, perchance, For the fresh waters of that lovely clime; Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance,

And on his gleaming hair no touch of time— Therefore we hoped :—but now the lake looks dim, For the green summer comes-and finds not him!