THE EXILE OF CLOUDLAND.

WHEN I was a dweller in Cloudland,
I dwelt in a rich and a proud land;
I was lord of the clime,

I was king of the time;

And the sun and the shower,
The leaf and the flower,

All came to my bidding in Cloudland.

I was monarch supreme in my Cloudland,
I was master of fate in that proud land;
I would not endure

That a grief without cure,

A love that could end,

Or a false-hearted friend,

Should dwell for an instant in Cloudland.

My Cloudland, my beautiful Cloudland,
I made thee a great and a proud land :
With skies ever bright,

And with hearts ever light;
Neither sorrow nor sin

Found a harbor within,

And love was the law of my Cloudland.

But, alas for myself and my proud land! There came revolution in Cloudland ;

My people, untrue,

Broke my scepter in two,

And, false to their vow,

Took the crown from my brow,

And banished me far from my Cloudland.

My Cloudland, my beautiful Cloudland, How happy was I in that proud land!

All the wisdom I've won,

Since my realm was undone,

Is but poor to repay

What I lost in the day

When I turned my last looks upon Cloudland.

O, ye thoughts and ye feelings of Cloudland!
Ye died when I quitted that proud land!
I wander discrowned,

On a bare chilly ground;

An exile forlorn,

Weary, weary, and worn,

Never more to revisit my Cloudland.

BY-AND-BY.

THERE's a little mischief-making
Elfin, who is ever nigh,
Thwarting every undertaking,
And his name is "By-and-By."
What we ought to do this minute
Will be better done, he 'll cry,

If to-morrow we begin it:

"Put it off," says By-and-By.

Those who heed his treacherous wooing
Will his faithless guidance rue;
What we always put off doing,
Clearly we shall never do.

We shall reach what we endeavor,

If on "Now" we more rely;
But unto the realms of "Never"
Leads the pilot By-and-By.

E. L. BLANCHARD.

THE TRUE HONOR OF A COUNTRY.

TELL me not of the honor of belonging to a free country. I ask, does our liberty bear generous fruits? Does it exalt us in manly spirit, in public virtue, above countries trodden under foot by despotism? Tell me not of the extent of our territory. I care not how large it is, if it multiply degenerate men. Speak not of our prosperity. Better be one of a poor people, plain in manners, revering God and respecting themselves, than belong to a rich country, which knows no higher good than riches.

Earnestly do I desire for this country that, instead of copying Europe with an undiscerning servility, it may have a character of its own, corresponding to the freedom and equality of our institutions. One Europe is enough. One Paris is enough. How much to be desired is it, that, separated as we are from the eastern continent by an ocean, we should be still more widely separated by simplicity of manners, by domestic purity, by inward piety, by reverence for human nature, by moral independence, by withstanding that subjection to fashion, and that debilitating sensuality, which characterize the most civilized portions of the Old World !

CHANNING.

LITTLE THINGS.

LITTLE drops of water, little grains of sand,
Make the mighty ocean and the beauteous land:
And the little moments, humble though they be,
Make the mighty ages of eternity.

So our little errors lead the soul away
From the paths of virtue, oft in sin to stray.
Little deeds of kindness, little words of love,
Make our earth an Eden, like the heaven above.

THE WOUNDED EAGLE.

EAGLE! this is not thy sphere !
Warrior-bird, what seek'st thou here?
Wherefore by this fountain's brink
Doth thy royal pinion sink?
Wherefore on the violet's bed

Lay'st thou thus thy drooping head?
Thou that hold'st the blast in scorn,
Thou that wear'st the wings of morn!

Eagle! wilt thou not arise ?

Look upon thine own bright skies!
Lift thy glance! the fiery sun
There his pride of place hath won,
And the mountain lark is there;
And sweet sound hath filled the air.
Hast thou left that realm on high?
O! it can be but to die!

Eagle, eagle! thou hast bowed
From thine empire o'er the cloud!
Thou that hadst ethereäl birth:
Thou hast stooped too near the earth,
And the hunter's shaft hath found thee,
And the toils of death have bound thee!
Wherefore didst thou leave thy place,
Creature of a kingly race?

Wert thou weary on thy throne?
Was the sky's dominion lone?
Chill and lone it well might be,
Yet that mighty wing was free,
Now the chain is o'er it cast,
From thy heart the blood flows fast.
Woe for gifted souls and high!

Is not such their destiny?

MRS. HEMANS.

The ph in sphere has the sound of f. Wherefore is pronounced hwär'för.

THE PLEASANT HOLIDAY.

COME, my children, come away,

For the sun shines bright to-day;
Little children, come with me,

Birds, and brooks, and wild-flowers see;

Get your hats and come away,

For it is a pleasant day.

See the lambs! they sport and play
On the meadows fresh and gay;
See the kittens, full of fun,
How they frolic how they run!
Children, too, may run and play,
For it is a pleasant day.

Bring the hoop, and bring the ball;
Come with happy faces all;

Let us make a merry ring,

Talk, and laugh, and skip, and sing!

Quickly, quickly come away,
For it is a pleasant day!