These check his fearful steps; and down he

sinks

Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift,
Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death,
Mixed with the tender anguish Nature shoots
Through the wrung bosom of the dying man:
.His wife, his children, and his friends unseen.
In vain for him the officious wife prepares
The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm;
In vain his little children, peeping out
Into the mingling storm, demand their sire,
With tears of artless innocence. Alas!
Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold,
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every

nerve

The deadly winter seizes; shuts up sense;
And o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold,
Lays him along the snows a stiffened corse,
Stretched out, and bleaching in the Northern

blast.

JAMES THOMSON.

The downward point of many a spear That he hung on its margin, far and near, Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept. And over each pane like a fairy crept; Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, By the light of the moon were seen

Most beautiful things. There were flowers and trees,

There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees,

There were cities, thrones, temples and towers, and these

All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair,He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there That all had forgotten for him to prepare,—

"Now just to set them a thinking,

I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he;
"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three,
And the glass of water they've left for me
Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking."
HANNAH FLAgg Gould.

T

SPRING.

(From "Ella; " spelling modernized.)

HE budding floweret blushes at the light, The meads he sprinkled with the yellow hue,

In daisied mantles is the mountain dight, The fresh young cowslip bendeth with the dew;

The trees enleafed, into heaven straught, When gentle winds do blow, to whistling wind is brought.

The evening comes, and brings the dews along,

The ruddy welkin shineth to the eyne, Around the ale-stake minstrels sing the song, Young ivy round the door-post doth en

twine;

I lay me on the grass; yet to my will,
Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something still
THOMAS CHATTERTON.

PRELUDE.

(ToThe Loves of the Angels."")

WAS when the world was in its prime. When the fresh stars had just begun Their race of glory, and young Time

quivers,

Maiden most perfect, lady of light,

With a noise of winds and many rivers,

spring to her!

Fire, or the strength of the streams that

spring!

Invite you forth in all your gayest trim!
Lend me your songs, ye nightingales! oh,

pour

The mazy-running soul of melody
Into my varied verse! while I deduce
From the first note the hollow cuckoo sings,
The symphony of spring, and touch a theme
Unknown to fame, the passion of the groves.
When first the soul of love is sent abroad,
Warm through the vital air, and on the heart
Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin,
In gallant thought, to plume the painted
wing,

And try again the long-forgotten strain,
At first faint-warbled. But no sooner grows
The soft infusion prevalent and wide,
Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows
In music unconfined. Up springs the lark,
Shrill-voiced and loud, the messenger of
morn;

Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounting sings Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts

Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse
Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush
Bending with dewy moisture o'er the heads
Of the coy choristers that lodge within,
Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush
And wood-lark, o'er the kind contending
throng

Superior heard, run through the sweetest length

Of notes; when listening Philomela deigns
To let them joy; and purposes, in thought
Elate, to make her night excel their day.
The black-bird whistles from the thorny
brake;

The mellow bullfinch

grove;

answers from the

Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze Poured out profusely, silent; joined to these, Innumerous songsters, in the freshening

shade

Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix
Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw,
And each harsh pipe, discordant heard
alone,

Aid the full concert; while the stock-dove breathes

A melancholy murmur through the whole.
"Tis love creates their melody, and all
This waste of music is the voice of love,

That even to birds and beasts the tender art

woods

JAMES THOMSON.