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THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND.

I love ye-chimes of Motherland,
With all this soul of mine,

And bless the LORD that I am sprung
Of good old English line!
And like a son I sing the lay
That England's glory tells;
For she is lovely to the LORD,
For you, ye Christian bells!

And heir of her ancestral fame,

And happy in my birth,

Thee too I love, my Forest-land,

The joy of all the earth;

For thine thy mother's voice shall be,
And here where GoD is king,

With English chimes, from Christian spires,

The wilderness shall ring.

LINES

Suggested by a picture of Washington Allston.

BY ISAAC MCLELLAN.

THE tender Twilight with a crimson cheek Leans on the breast of Eve. The wayward Wind Hath folded her fleet pinions, and gone down

To slumber by the darkened woods-the herds

Have left their pastures, where the sward grows green

And lofty by the river's sedgy brink,

And slow are winding home. Hark, from afar

Their tinkling bells sound through the dusky glade
And forest-openings, with a pleasant sound;

While answering Echo from the distant hill,

Sends back the music of the herdsman's horn.

How tenderly the trembling light yet plays
O'er the far-waving foliage! Day's last blush
Still lingers on the billowy waste of leaves,
With a strange beauty-like the yellow flush
That haunts the ocean, when the day goes by.
Methinks, whene'er earth's wearying troubles pass
Like winter shadows o'er the peaceful mind,
"Twere sweet to turn from life, and pass abroad,
With solemn footsteps, into Nature's vast
And happy palaces, and lead a life

Of peace in some green paradise like this.

The brazen trumpet and the loud war-drum
Ne'er startled these green woods :-the raging sword
Hath never gathered its red harvest here!

The peaceful Summer day hath never closed
Around this quiet spot, and caught the gleam
Of War's rude pomp:-the humble dweller here
Hath never left his sickle in the field,

To slay his fellow with unholy hand;

The maddening voice of battle, the wild groan,
The thrilling murmuring of the dying man,

And the shrill shriek of mortal agony,

Have never broke its Sabbath solitude.

PALESTINE.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

BLEST land of Judea! thrice hallowed of song, Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng; In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea, On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee!

With the eye of a spirit, I look on that shore,
Where pilgrim and prophet have lingered before;
With the glide of a spirit, I traverse the sod
Made bright by the steps of the angels of God.

Blue sea of the hills! in my spirit I hear
Thy waters, Genasseret, chime on my ear;

Where the Lowly and Just with the people sat down,
And thy spray on the dust of his sandals was thrown.

Beyond are Bethulia's mountains of green,

And the desolate hills of the wild Godarene;

Hark, a sound in the valleys! where s Thy river, oh Kishon, is sweeping alon Where the Canaanite strove with Jeho And thy torrent grew dark with the blo

There, down from his mountains stern And Naphtali's stag, with his eyeballs o And the chariots of Jabin rolled harmles For the arm of the Lord was Abinoam's

There sleep the still rocks and the caver To the song which the beautiful Prophet When the Princes of Issachar stood by h And the shout of a host in its triumph rej

Lo! Bethlehem's hill-site before me is see With the mountains around, and the valle There rested the shepherds of Judah, and The song of the angels rose sweet on the a

And Bethany's palm-trees in beauty still th Their shadows at noon on the ruins below But where are the sisters who hastened to The lowly Redeemer, and sit at his feet?