'Tis the natural way of living:

Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets it sorrow and ache;

The sour partakes the season's youth,

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.

There is a Tongue in every Leaf.

THERE is a tongue in every leaf --
A voice in every rill ;

A voice that speaketh every where-
In flood and fire, through earth and air,
A tongue that is never still.

'Tis the great Spirit wide diffused
Through every thing we see,
That with our spirits communeth,

Of things mysterious,-Life and Death,
Time and Eternity.

I see Him in the blazing sun,
And in the thunder-cloud;

I hear Him in the mighty roar

That rusheth through the forests hoar,

When winds are piping loud.

Anon.

I feel Him in the silent dews,
By grateful earth betrayed;

I feel Him in the gentle showers,

The soft south wind, the breath of flowers,

The sunshine and the shade.

And yet (ungrateful that I am)

I've turned, in sullen mood,

From all these things whereof He said,When the great whole was finished,— That they were "very good."

My sadness on the loveliest things
Fell like ungrateful dew;

The darkness that encompassed me,

The gloom I felt so palbably,
My own dark spirit threw.

Yet He was patient,-slow to wrath,
Though every day provoked

By selfish pining, discontent,
Acceptance cold, or negligent,
And promises revoked.

THE TOWN AND COUNTRY CHILD.

And still the same rich feast was spread
For my insensate heart!

Not always so I woke again,

To join creation's rapturous strain,
“Oh! Lord, how good thou art !"

The clouds drew up,-the shadows fled;
The glorious sun broke out;
And love, and hope, and gratitude,
Dispelled that miserable mood

Of darkness and of doubt.

The Town and Country Child.

Allan Cunningham.

HILD of the country! free as air

CHILD

Art thou, and as the sunshine fair;
Born, like the lily, where the dew
Lies odorous when the day is new,
Fed 'mid the May flowers like the bee,
Nursed to sweet music on the knee,
Lull'd in the breast to that glad tune
Which winds make 'mong the woods of June:

I sing of thee;-'tis sweet to sing

Of such a fair and gladsome thing.

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f watchmen, thy best light's a lamp. hrough smoke, and not through trellised vines nd blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines; sing of thee in sadness; where

lse is wreck wrought in aught so fair?

Child of the country! thy small feet read on strawberries red and sweet; With thee I wander forth to see

he flowers which most delight the bee;
he bush o'er which the throstle sung
April, while she nursed her young;
The den beneath the sloe-thorn, where
ne bred her twins, the timorous hare;
he knoll, wrought o'er with wild blue-bells,
here brown bees build their balmy cells;
he greenwood stream, the shady pool,
here trouts leap when the day is cool;
he shilfer's nest that seems to be
portion of the sheltering tree,-
nd other marvels, which my verse
an find no language to rehearse.