But if the world is all in semblance dead,
From wells within new life around thee spread.

THE SILKLESS WORM.

The silkworm weaves itself a silken tomb;
Thy shroud, thou idler, tasks another's loom.

THE ASTRONOMER.

Astronomer! thy mind I covet not,

That makes the universe one heavenless spot;
But thou, true sage, for ever honoured be,
Who still believest a heaven thou canst not see.

THE DESERT'S USE.

Why wakes not life the desert bare and lone?
To show what all would be if she were gone.

POMPEII.

The burning cone that pours its ashes down,
Turning to tombs fields, garden, palace, town,
Buries even graves. How strange! a buried grave!
Death cannot from more death its own dead empire save.

THE ROUND OF THE WHEEL.

The miller feeds the mill, the mill the miller;
So death feeds life, and life too feeds its killer.

CALM AND STORM.

The stormy blast is strong, but mightier still
The calm that binds the storm beneath its peaceful will.

SMILES.

The childish smile is fair, but lovelier far

The smiles which tell of griefs that now no longer are.

Now, dearly beloved, do not all set yourselves down to compose Thoughts in Verse" for Maga after the fashion of our New Contributor. We must insist on your being originals. Imitate, copy, what you will, in sympathetic admiration of him or Thuddy Jones, but we must not have either caricatured within our cover; therefore seek admittance into some rival journal. Rival indeed! The idea

is preposterous. Not that our New Contributor himself was without models to work by-German poetry is rich in such ruminations, and so is our old English poetry, as in every thing else that is good, but no modern writer among us that we know of has presented the public with such specimens of a style of thought and execution, in which success may not seem of very difficult achievement -till you try. But we beseech you again don't try, for the most sensible people are seldom aware of their failures, provided they have not stuck fast in the mud altogether, but have managed, somehow or other, to flounder through; and nothing in prose or verse was ever yet worth a wisp to rub down the writer with, produced in "a fit of sympa. thetic admiration." With even more fervent earnestness, we implore all young men of literary propensities to beware being bitten by any of the following Eleven Triads :

I.

Three Furies are there, Fear, Remorse, and Hate,
That vex with iron hands our mortal state,

Yet they are guardians of a heavenly gate.

II.

Three Graces are our stars, Love, Beauty, Truth,
Primeval sisters, bright in endless youth,

That cheer man's slavish toils with Peace and Ruth.

111.

Young Abel lies a wreck in childless death;
Cain withers in his own envenom'd breath;
Yet hopeful Eve is yearning still for Seth.

IV.

Faith, Hope, and Love, together work in gloom;
What Faith believes, Hope shapes in form and bloom,
And Love sends forth to daylight from the tomb.

V.

To hide the life of man in leprous crust,

Three Gorgons are there, bred from Hell's dark lust,
Potent of death,-Despair, Self-scorn, Distrust.

VI.

The Rain that wets the summer leaves,
The Beam that dries, the Wind that heaves,
Each gives a charm, and each receives.

VII.

Three Destinies are throned o'er all supreme,

Life, Death, and Growth. Wide shapes of cloud they seem, Yet rule each starry age, and moment's dream.

VIII.

Thought, Feeling, Will,-by these myself I know
Not some thin vision's transitory show,
Not slave, but subject of all joy and wo.

IX.

Three Nations are there in the world of old
Who from their graves all earth's dominion hold,
The Jew devout, wise Greek, and Roman bold.

X.

Three growths from seeds without man's call appear,
Grain, Flower, and Tree; one gives his body's cheer;
One decks his bride; one yields his roof and bier,

XI.

Prose, Song, and Gabble are three modes of speech,
The only ones on earth for all and each,

Sense, Essence, Nonsense, as they can, to teach.

All the beauty and sublimity on earth-over the four quarters of the world-is not worth a straw if valued against a good harvest. An average crop is satisfactory; but a crop that soars high above an average-a golden year of golden ears-sends joy into the heart of heaven. No prating now of the degeneracy of the potato. We can sing now with our single voice, like a numerous chorus, of

"Potatoes drest both ways, both roasted and boiled ;"

Sixty bolls to the acre on a field of our own of twenty acres-mealier than any meal-Perth reds-to the hue on whose cheeks dull was that on the face of the Fair Maid of Perth, when she blushed to confess to Burn-y-win' that hand-over-hip he had struck the iron when it was hot, and that she was no more the Glover's. O bright are potato blooms!-O green are potato shaws!-O yellow are potato-plums! But how oft are blighted summer hopes and broken summer promises! Spare not the shaw-heap high the mounds-that damp nor frost may dim a single eye-so that all winter through poor men may prosper, and spring see settings of such prolific vigour, that they shall yield a thousandfold-and the sound of rumble-tethumps be heard all over the land. Nay-don't look so glum at our gaiety-our fun has been found fault with as vulgar and uproarious-now, dry humour we can understand, though we prefer wet-but elegant still fun "saw we never none". so let girls giggle with us and boys guffaw.

Hush-hear the Husbandman.

THE HUSBANDMAN.

Earth, of man the bounteous mother,
Feeds him still with corn and wine;
He who best would aid a brother,
Shares with him these gifts divine.

Many a power within her bosom

Noiseless, hidden, works beneath;
Hence are seed, and leaf, and blossom
Golden ear and cluster'd wreath.

These to swell with strength and beauty,
Is the royal task of man;

Man's a king, his throne is duty,
Since his work on earth began.

Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage,
These, like man, are fruits of earth;
Stamp'd in clay a heavenly mintage,

All from dust receive their birth.

Barn and mill, and winevat's treasures,
Earthly goods for earthly lives,
These are nature's ancient pleasures,
Which her child from her derives.

What the dream, but vain rebelling,
If from earth we sought to rise?
"Tis our stored and ample dwelling,
'Tis from it we see the skies.

Wind and frost, and hour and season,
Land and water, sun and shade,
Work with these, as bids thy reason,
For they work thy toil to aid.

Sow thy seed and reap in gladness!
Man himself is all a seed;
Hope and hardship, joy and sadness,
Slow the plant to ripeness lead.

We could write a commentary on these stanzas somewhat better worth ink than our prefatory" daffin ;" but we hear the hunter's horn and hollo-the boatswain's whistle-and the seaman's yo! heave! O!

THE HUNTER.

Merrily winds the hunter's horn,

And loud the ban of dogs replying,

When before the shout of the fleet-foot morn,
The shadows of night are flying.

Sullen the boar in the deep green wood,

And proud the stag that roams the forest,
And noble the steed with his warlike blood,
That exults when the toil is sorest.

Fair is the land of hill and plain,

And lonely dells in misty mountains;

And the crags where eagles in tempest reign,
And glittering lakes and fountains.

These are the joys that hunters find,

Whate'er the sky that's bending o'er them,
When they leave their cares on their beds behind,
And earth is all fresh before them.