[From Saul.]

AND the little brooks witnessing murmured, persistent

and low,

With their obstinate, all but hushed voices-"e'en so, it is so!"

[From Pauline.]

BROWNING.

AR off the river

FAR

Sweeps like a sea, barred out from land; but one

One thin clear sheet has over-leaped and wound

Into this silent depth, which gained, it lies

Still, as but let by sufferance; the trees bend

O'er it as wild men watch a sleeping girl,

And through their roots long creeping plants stretch out
Their twined hair, steeped and sparkling; farther on,
Tall rushes and thick flag-knots have combined

To narrow it; so, at length, a silver thread,
It winds, all noiselessly through the deep wood
Till thro' a cleft-way, thro' the moss and stone,
It joins its parent-river with a shout.

BROWNING.

Cry of the Little Brook.

'HRIST help me! whither would my dark thoughts run,

CHRI

I look around me, trembling fearfully;

The dreadful silence of the Silent One

Freezes my lips, and all is sad to see.
Hark! hark! what small voice murmurs

"God made me!"

It is the Brooklet, singing all alone,
Sparkling with pleasure that is all its own,

And running, self-contented, sweet, and free.
O Brooklet, born where never grass is green,
Finding the stony hill and flowing fleet,
Thou comest as a Messenger serene,

With shining wings and silver sandall'd feet; Faint falls thy music on a Soul unclean,

And, in a moment, all the World looks sweet!

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

[From Down the River.]

HOW merry a life the little River leads,

Piping a vagrant ditty free from care;

Now rippling as it rushes through the reeds
And broad-leaved lilies sailing here and there,
Now lying level with the clover meads

And musing in a mist of silver air!
Bearing a pastoral peace where'er it goes,
Narrow'd to mirth or broaden'd to repose :
Through copsy villages and tiny towns,
By belts of woodland singing sweet,
Pausing where sun and shadow meet
Without the darkness of the breezy downs,

Bickering o'er the keystone as it flows

'Neath mossy bridges arch'd like maiden feet; And slowly widening as it seaward goes, Because its summer mission grows complete.

The River, narrow'd to a woody glen,
Leaps trembling o'er a little rocky ledge,
Then broadens forward into calm again

Where the gray moor-hen builds her nest of sedge;
Caught, in the dark those willow-trees have made,
Lipping the yellow lilies o'er and o'er,
It flutters twenty feet along the shade,
Halts at the sunshine like a thing afraid,
And turns to kiss the lilies yet once more.

Those little falls are lurid with the rain
That ere the day is done will come again.
The River falters swoll'n and brown,

Falters, falters, as it nears them,

Shuddering back as if it fears them,

Falters, falters, falters, falters,

Then dizzily rushes down.

But all is calm again, the little River

Smiles on and sings the song it sings for ever.

Here at the curve it passes tilth and farm,
And faintly flowing onward to the mill

It stretches out a little azure arm
To aid the miller, aiding with a will,
And singing, singing still.

R. BUCHANAN.