TO THE MOCKING BIRD.

And vanish in the human heart; and then

I revelled in those songs, and sorrowed, when

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With noon-heat overwrought, the music's burst was done.

I would, sweet bird! that I might live with thee,
Amid the eloquent grandeur of the shades,
Alone with nature-but it may not be;

I have to struggle with the tumbling sea

Of human life, until existence fades

Into death's darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar Thro' the thick woods and shadow-chequered glades,

While nought of sorrow casts a dimness o'er The brilliance of thy heart-but I must wear, As now, my garmenting of pain and careAs penitents of old their galling sackcloth wore.

Yet why complain?-What though fond hopes deferred
Have overshadowed Youth's green paths with gloom!
Still, joy's rich music is not all unheard,—

There is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet bird!
To welcome me, within my humble home;-

There is an eye with love's devotion bright,

The darkness of existence to illume!

Then why complain ?-When death shall cast his blight Over the spirit, then my bones shall rest

Beneath these trees-and from thy swelling breast,

O'er them thy song shall pour like a rich flood of light.

TO A SHOWER.

BY JAMES WILLIAM MILLER.

THE pleasant rain !—the pleasant rain!
By fits it plashing falls

On twangling leaf and dimpling pool-
How sweet its warning calls!

They know it—all the bosomy vales,
High slopes, and verdant meads;
The queenly elms and princely oaks
Bow down their grateful heads.

The withering grass, and fading flowers,
And drooping shrubs look gay;
The bubbly brook, with gladlier song,

Hies on its endless way;

All things of earth-the grateful things!

Put on their robes of cheer,

They hear the sound of the warning burst,

And know the rain is near.

It is rich with sighs of fainting flowers
And roses' fragrant death;

It hath kissed the tomb of the lily pale,

The beds where violets die,

And it bears their life on its living wings— I feel it wandering by.

And yet it comes! the lightning's flash
Hath torn the lowering cloud,

With a distant roar, and a nearer crash,
Out bursts the thunder loud.

It comes with the rush of a god's descent
On the hushed and trembling earth,
To visit the shrines of the hallowed groves
Where a poet's soul had birth.

With a rush, as of a thousand steeds,
Is the mighty god's descent;
Beneath the weight of his passing tread,
The conscious groves are bent.

His heavy tread—it is lighter now—

And yet it passeth on;

And now it is up, with a sudden lift-

The pleasant rain hath gone.

I see the smile of the opening cloud,

Like the parted lips of mirth. The golden joy is spreading wide Along the blushing west,

And the happy earth gives back her sn Like the glow of a grateful breast.

As a blessing sinks in a grateful heart, That knoweth all its need,

So came the good of the pleasant rain, O'er hill and verdant mead.

It shall breathe this truth on the huma In hall and cotter's home,

That to bring the gift of a bounteous h The pleasant rain hath come.

FLOWERS.

BY HENRY PICKERING.

La vue d'une fleur caresse mon imagination, et flatte mes sens à un point inexprimable: elle reveille avec volupté le sentiment de mon existence. MME. ROLAND.

THE impatient Morn,

Flushed with the vernal gale, calls forth, "Arise!
To trace the hills, the meads, where thousand dyes
The ground adorn,

While the dew sparkles yet within the violet's eyes:"

And when the day

In golden slumber sinks, with accent sweet
Mild Evening comes to lure the willing feet

With her to stray,

Where'er the bashful flowers the observant eye may greet.

Near the moist brink

Of music-loving streams they ever keep,

And often in the lucid fountains peep;

Oft, laughing, drink

Of the mad torrent's spray, perched near the thundering steep.

And every where

Along the plashy marge, and shallow bed

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