Alas! at holiest seasons, even at church
The vision haunted me,-of that rare thing,
And his surpassing happiness to whom
Fate should assign its fellow. Thereupon
Sprang up crude notions, vague incipient schemes
Of future independence: Not like those
Fermenting in the youthful brain of her
Maternally, on fashionable system,

Train'd up betimes i' the way that she should go
To the one great end-a good establishment.
Yet similar in some sort were our views
Toward contingent power. 'When I'm a woman
I'll have,' quoth I,--so far the will and when
Tallied exactly, but our difference lay

Touching the end to be achieved. With me,
Not settlements, and pin-money, and spouse
Appendant, but in unencumber'd right

Of womanhood-a house and cuckoo clock !
Hark! as I hang reflective o'er my task,
The pen fresh nibb'd and full, held idly yet;

What sound comes clicking through the half-closed door,
Distinct, monotonous? 'Tis even so;

Years past, the pledge (self-plighted) was redeem'd;
There hangs with its companionable voice

The cuckoo clock in this mine house.-Ay, mine;
But left unto me desolate."

One quotation more we have room for, equal, so we think, to any thing of the kind in our modern poetry.

"Then-most happy child!

Most favour'd! I was sent a frequent guest,
Secure of welcome, to the loveliest home

Of all the country, o'er whose quiet walls
Brooded the twin-doves-Holiness and Peace:
There with thine aged partner didst thou dwell,
Pastor and master! servant of thy Lord,
Faithful as he, the labours of whose love
Recorded by thy pen, embalm for aye

The name of Gilpin heir'd by thee-right heir
Of the saint's mantle. Holy Bernard's life,
Its apostolic graces unimpair'd,

Renew'd in William's, virtuous parish priest!

"Let me live o'er again, in fond detail,
One of those happy visits. Leave obtain❜d,

Methought the clock stood still. Four hours past noon, And not yet started on our three mile walk!

And six the vicarage tea hour primitive,

And I should lose that precious hour, most prized,
When in the old man's study, at his feet
Or nestling close beside him, I might sit
With eye, ear, soul intent on his mild voice,
And face benign, and words so simply wise,
Framed for his childish hearer. 'Let us go!'

And like a fawn I bounded on before,

When lagging Jane came forth, and off we went.
Sultry the hour, and hot the dusty way,

Though here and there by leafy skreen o'erarch'd-
And the long broiling hill! and that last mile
When the small frame wax'd weary! the glib tongue
Slackening its motion with the languid limbs.
But joy was in the heart, howe'er suppress'd
Its outward show exuberant; and, at length,
Lo! the last turning-lo! the well-known door,
Festoon'd about with garlands picturesque,
Of trailing evergreens. Who's weary now?
Sounding the bell with that impatient pull
That quickens Mistress Molly's answering steps
To most unusual promptness. Turns the lock-
The door uncloses-Molly's smiling face
Welcomes unask'd. One eager, forward spring,
And farewell to the glaring world without;
The glaring, bustling, noisy, parch'd-up world!
And hail repose and verdure, turf and flowers,
Perfume of lillies, through the leafy gloom
White gleaming; and the full, rich, mellow note
Of song-thrush, hidden in the tall thick bay
Beside the study window !

The old house

Through flickering shadows of high-arching boughs,
Caught gleams of sunlight on its time-stain'd walls,
And frieze of mantling vine; and lower down,
Train'd among jasmines to the southern bow,
Moss roses, bursting into richest bloom,

Blush'd by the open window.

There she sate,

The venerable lady (her white hair
White as the snowy coif,) upon her book
Or needlework intent; and near at hand
The maiden sister friend (a life-long guest)
At her coarse sempstresship-another Dorcas,
Unwearying in the work of charity.

“Oh! kindest greeting! as the door unclosed
That welcomed the half-bold half-bashful guest;
And brought me bounding on at half a word
To meet the proffer'd kiss. Oh kindest care!
Considerate of my long, hot, dusty walk,
Of hat and tippet that divested me,

And clinging gloves; and from the glowing cheek
And hot brow, parted back the clustering curls,
Applying grateful coolness of clear lymph,
Distill'd from fragrant elder-sovereign wash
For sunburnt skin and freckled! Kindest care,
That follow'd up those offices of love

By cautionary charge to sit and rest

Quite still till tea time.' Kindest care, I trow, But little relish'd. Restless was my rest,

And wistful eyes still wandering to the door,
Reveal'd the secret of my discontent,'

And told where I would be. The lady smiled,
And shook her head, and said,—

'Well! go your ways
And ask admittance at that certain door
You know so well.' All weariness was gone-
Blithe as a bird, thus freed, away I flew,

And in three seconds at the well-known door
Tapp'd gently; and a gentle voice within

Asking Who's there!" 'It's me,' I answer'd low,
Grammatically clear. Let me come in.'
The gentle voice rejoin'd; and in I stole,
Bashfully silent, as the good man's smile,
And hand extended, drew me to his chair;
And there, all eye and ear, I stood full long,
Still tongueless, as it seem'd; love-tempering awe
Chaining my words up. But so kindly his,
His aspect so benign, his winning art
So graciously conforming; in short time
Awe was absorb'd in love, and then unchain'd
By perfect confidence, the little tongue
Question'd and answer'd with as careless case
As might be, from irreverend boldness free.
True love may cast out fear, but not respect,
That fears the very shadow of offence.

"How holy was the calm of that small room!
How tenderly the evening light stole in,
As 'twere in reverence of its sanctity!
Here and there touching with a golden gleam

Book-shelf or picture-frame, or brightening up
The nosegay set with daily care (love's own)
Upon the study table. Dallying there

Among the books and papers, and with beam
Of softest radiance, starring like a glory
The old man's high bald head and noble brow-
There still I found him, busy with his pen-
(Oh pen of varied power! found faithful ever,
Faithful and fearless in the one great cause)—
Or some grave tome, or lighter work of taste
(His no ascetic, harsh, soul-narrowing creed),
Or that unrivall'd pencil, with few strokes,
And sober tinting slight, that wrought effects
Most magical-the poetry of art!

Lovely simplicity! (true wisdom's grace)
That condescending to a simple child,

Spread out before me hoards of graphic treasures;
Smiling encouragement, as I express'd
Delight or censure (for in full good faith
I play'd the critic), and vouchsafing mild
T'explain or vindicate; in seeming sport
Instructing ever; and on graver themes
Winning my heart to listen, as he taught
Things that pertain to life.

Oh precious seed!
Sown early; soon, too soon the sower's hand,
The immediate mortal instrument withdrawn,
Tares of this evil world sprang thickly up,
Choking your promise. But the soil beneath
(Nor rock nor shifting sand) retain'd ye still,
God's mercy willing it, until his hand,
Chastening as fathers chasten, clear'd at last
Th' encumber'd surface, and the grain sprang up-
But hath it flourish'd?—hath it yet borne fruit
Acceptable? Oh Father! leave it not
For lack of moisture yet to fall away!"

We have now reached the close of the " Birth-Day," and of this number of Maga, which we are confident will be felt to be a delightful one, were it but for our profuse quotations from this delightful poem. It has already had a pretty wide circulation; but in a few days hence it will have been perused by thousands and tens of thousands, in our pages and by and by the volume itself will find its

way into many a quiet "homestead" seldom visited by books. The plan of the poem might be extended so as to include another season-or age of life. Yet it is now a whole; and we believe that it is best it should remain in its present shape. Let us hope ere long to have another volume.