In which the Saviour trod of yore; For this he beareth travail sore, Hunger and weariness and pain, Nor longeth for his home again!

Now see another pilgrim, gay,
And heartsome as a morn in May;
Young, beautiful, and brave, and strong,
As a wild stag he bounds along;
Mountains his path may not impede;
The winds and waters serve his need.
He is a pilgrim bound to see

All the old lands of poesy;

At antique cross and altar-stone,

And where dim pagan rites were done;

In groves; by springs; on mountains hoar;

In classic vale; by classic shore;

Where wise men walked; where brave men fell;

Or tale of love hath left its spell,
It matters not his foot is there,
Joyful to breathe of classic air;
Joyful on classic forms to gaze,

And call back light from ancient days.—
It is a fond and ardent quest,

And leaves its pilgrim ill at rest!

Behold, once more! - From youth to age
Man goeth on a pilgrimage;
Or rich or poor, unwise or wise,
Before each one this journey lies;
"T is to a land afar, unknown,
Yet where the great of old are gone,
Poet and patriot, sage and seer;
All whom we worship or revere ;
This awful pilgrimage have made, —
Have passed to the dim land of shade.
Youth, with his radiant locks, is there;
And old men with their silver hair;
And children sportive in their glee ;-
A strange and countless company!
Ne'er on that land gazed human eyes;
Man's science hath not traced its skies,
Nor mortal traveller e'er brought back
Chart of that journey's fearful track.

Thou art a pilgrim to that shore, -
Like them, thou canst return no more!
Oh, gird thee, for thou needest strength
For the way's peril as its length!
Oh, faint not by the way, nor heed
Dangers nor lures, nor check thy speed;
So God be with thee, pilgrim blessed,
Thou journeyest to the LAND OF REST!

I never see these flowers but they
Send back my memory far away,
To years long past, and many a day
Else perished long ago!
They bring my childhood's years again -
Our garden-fence, I see it plain,
With ficaries like a golden rain

Showered on the earth below.

A happy child, I leap, I run,
And memories come back, one by one,
Like swallows with the summer's sun,
To their old haunts of joy!
A happy child, once more I stand,
With my kind sister hand in hand,
And hear those tones so sweet, so bland,
That never brought annoy!

I hear again my mother's wheel,
Her hand upon my head I feel;

Her kiss, which every grief could heal,
Is on my cheek even now;

I see the dial over-head;

I see the porch o'er which was led,
The pyracantha green and red,

And jessamine's slender bough.

I see the garden-thicket's shade,
Where all the summer long we played,
And gardens set, and houses made,
Our early work and late;

Our little gardens, side by side,
Each bordered round with London-pride,
Some six feet long, and three feet wide,
To us a large estate!

The apple and the damson trees;
The cottage-shelter for our bees;
I see them and beyond all these,
A something dearer still;

I see an eye serenely blue,
A cheek of girlhood's freshest hue,
A buoyant heart, a spirit true,
Alike in good and ill.

COWSLIPS.

NAY, tell me not of Austral flowers,
Or purple bells from Persia bowers,
The cowslip of this land of ours,
Is dearer far to me!
This flower in other years I knew!
I know the fields wherein it grew,
With violets white and violets blue,
Beneath the garden-tree!

THE INDIAN BIRD.

A MAIDEN had an Indian bird,

And she kept it in her bower; The sweetest bird that e'er was seen,Its feathers were of the light sea-green, And its eye had a mild intelligence, As if it were gifted with human sense:

In the English tongue it had no name,
But a gentle thing it was, and tame,
And at the maiden's call it came:

And thus it sung one twilight hour,
In a wild tone so sweet and low,
As made a luxury of woe.

"The nest was made of the silver moss,
And was built in the nutmeg tree,
Far in an ancient forest shade,

That sprung when the very world was made, In an Indian isle beyond the sea.

"There were four of us in the little nest,

And under our mother's wings we lay; And the father, the nutmeg leaves among, To the rising moon he sat and sungFor he sung both night and day. "And oh, he sung so sweetly,

The very winds were hushed! And the elephant hunters all drew near, In joy that wondrous song to hear,

That like wild waters gushed.

"And the little creatures of the wood
To hear it had a great delight,
All but the wild wolf-cat, that prowls
To seek his prey at night.

"The wild wolf-cat of the mountains old, He stole to that tree of ours

All silently he stole at night,

Like the green snake 'mong the flowers.

"His eyes were like two dismal fires,

His back was dusky grey;

And he seized our father while he sung,
Then bounded with him away!

"Wild was the cry the father gave,

Till the midnight forest rang;

And Oh! said the kindly hunters then,
Some savage creature, from its den
Hath pounced upon that gentle bird,
And seized it as it sang!"

"All wearily passed that woful night
With our poor mother's wail;
And we watched, from out our little nest,
The great round moon go down to rest,
And the little stars grow pale.

"And then I felt our mother's heart
Flutter, as in a wild surprise;
And we saw from a leafy bongh above,
The basilisk-snake, with its stony eyes.

"It lay on the bough like a bamboo rod,

All freckled and barred with green and brown; And the terrible light of its freezing eyes Through the nutmeg boughs came down. "And lithely towards the little nest

It slid, and nearer it drew,

And its poisonous breath, like a stifling cloud,
Mong the nutmeg leaves it threw.

Ah me! and I felt our mother's heart,

As it beat in awful fear,

And she gave a cry that any beast

But the basilisk-snake had been woe to hear.

"But he spared her not for her beautiful wings; He spared her not for her cry;

And the silence of death came down on the woods That had rung with her agony.

"And there we lay, four lonely ones!

That live-long day, and pined, and pined; And dismally through the forest-trees

Went by the moaning wind.

"We watched the dreary stars come out,

And the pitiless moon come up the sky, And many a dreadful sound we heardThe serpent's hiss and the jackal's cry, And then a hush of downy wings

The nutmeg tree went by.

"And ever and ever that dreamy sound,
For a long, long hour we heard;
And then the eyes so terrible,
And the hooked beak, we knew them well,
Of the cruel dragon-bird!

"We were his prey; and then there came
In the light of the morning sun,

The giant eagle from the rock;

He swooped on the nest with a heavy shock,
And left but me, the lonely one!

"Oh sorrow comes to the feeble thing,
And I was feeble as could be!
And next the arrowy lightning came,

And smote our nutmeg tree.

"Down went the tree; down went the nest,
And I had soon been dead of cold,
But that a Bramin passing by,
Beheld me with his kindly eye:
He bore me thence, and for a space
He kept me in a holy place,

Within a little cage of gold.
"The Bramin's daughter tended me,
A gentle maid and beautiful;
And all day long to me she sung,
And all around my cage she hung
The large white-lily fresh and cool.
"And so I lived, in joy I lived;

And when my wings were strong,
She placed me in a banyan tree,
Of her sweet will to set me free,
For the Bramin doth no creature wrong.

'But I could not leave that kind old man
I could not leave that maiden bright:
And so my little nest I built
Beneath their temple's roof, and dwelt
Among sweet flowers and all fair things
The Indian people's offerings;

And me she called her 'soul's delight,
In that land's speech a loving name;
And thenceforth it my name became.

'But bloody war was in the land;

The old man and the maid were slain; The precious things were borne away A ruined heap the temple lay,

And I among the spoil was ta'en. “They said I was an idol bird,

That I had been enshrined there, And that the people worshipped me, And that my gentle maiden fair Was priestess to the sea-green bird! "T was false !-yet thus they all averred, And in the city I was sold For a great price in counted gold. Thy merchant-father purchased me, And I was borne across the sea; Thou know'st the rest-I am not sad; With thee, sweet maiden, all are glad!"

THE CHILDREN'S WISH.

OH for an old, grey traveller,
By our winter fire to be,
To tell is of each foreign shore,
Of sunny seas and mountains hoar,
Which we can never see!

To tell us of those regions stern,
Covered with frost and snow,
Where, not the hardy fir can bear
The bitter cold of that northern air,-
'Mong the dwarfish Esquimaux!

Or where, on the high and snowy ridge
Of the Dofrine mountains cold,
The patient rein-deer draws the sledge,
With rattling hoofs, along the ledge
Of mountains wild and old!

Or, if that ancient traveller

Had gone o'er the hills of Spain, Of other scenes he would proudly speak, Than icy seas and mountains bleak;

And a weary way of pain.

He would tell of green and sunny vales,
Thick woods and waters clear,

Of singing birds, and summer skies,
And peasant girls with merry eyes,

And the dark-browed muleteer!
Or, think if he had been at Rome,
And in St. Peter's stood,
And seen each venerable place,
Built, when the old, heroic race

Of Rome was great and good!
And more, if he had voyaged o'er

The bright blue Grecian sea, 'Mong isles where the white-lily grows, And the gum-cistus and the rose, The bay and olive tree! And had felt on old Parnassus' top The pleasant breezes blow;

In Athens dwelt a long, long time,
And noted all of that fair clime,

Which we so long to know.

And then, as he grew old ana wise,
He should go to Palestine,
And in the Holy City dwell,
Till, like his home, he knew it well,
With the Bible, line by line.

He should have stood on Lebanon,
Beneath the Cedar's shade;
And, with a meek and holy heart,
On the Mount of Olives sate apart,

And by the Jordan strayed.

And have travelled on where Babylon
Lay like a desert heap,
Where the pale hyacinth grows alone,
And where beneath the ruined stone
The bright, green lizards creep!

And if, the great world round about,
Through flowery Hindostan ;

To the Western World; to the Southern Cape, Where dwell the zebra and the ape,

Had gone this pleasant man.

What tales he would tell on winter nights!
Of Indian hunters grim,

As they sit in the pine-bark wigwam's bound,
While the hungry wolf is barking round,
In the midnight forest dim.

Or how they meet by the council fire,

Wearing the hen-hawk's feather,
To hear some famous Sagum's "talk,"
To see them bury the tomahawk,

And smoke the pipe together.

All green and ancient were the woods

That grew around their home,
And old and quaint armorial stones
Adorned their stately dome :
And 'mid dark trees, a little church

Its holy form displayed,

Within whose deep and quiet vaults
Their noble dead were laid.
The boy turned up his eager eyes

To his mother, as she told

Of the proud race from whom he sprung, And their achievements old.

"My son, the legend of our house,

Is simply Trust in God,'
And none unworthy of such trust,
Within its halls have trod.
The blood of thy heroic line

Has reddened many a field,
And trophies of the fights they won
Are blazoned on thy shield;
The banners which they bore away,
All soiled and torn and red,
Are mouldering in yon holy pile,

Above the warrior dead;
And many an ancient coat of mail,

And plumed helm and sword,
All proved in some heroic cause,

Within thy home are stored.
Thou bear'st the noble name they bore,
Their blood is in thy veins,

And much thy worthy sires have done,
But more for thee remains.

They shrunk not in the dreadful hour
Of persecution's scathe,

And some 'mid bonds and some 'mid fire,

Maintained their righteous faith. Thou must not shrink, thou must not fear, Nor e'er belie their trust, For God who brought the mighty low, He raised them from the dust. And in our dangerous hour of pride, When honours gird us round, Alas! the boasted strength of man Is often weakest found;

And they who put their trust in heaven,
'Mid darkness and dismay,

Too soon forget the God they sought,
When fear nas passed away.
The hour of chiefest danger now
Is nigh-so heaven thee guide!—
Prosperity will try thee, boy,

As ne'er thy sires were tried!—
And oh, unworthy of thy sires,

Not here couldst thou find rest;

Thou might'st not stand beneath these trees,
Were thine a guilty breast;
These ancient walls, yon holy fane,
This green and stately tree,
Couldst thou disgrace thy noble name,
Would speak reproach to thee!"

Again the boy looked in her face,

His bright eyes dimmed with tears,

And "Not unworthy of my sires,
Shall be my manhood years!"
Said he, in a proud, but artless tone,
And his mother kissed his brow
And said, "I trust in God that none
Of thy noble sires in the ages gone,
Had a nobler son than thou!"

THE DEPARTED.

"FROM the woods and the summer fields he is gone, With his merry laugh and his sunny brow!

The garden looks dim and the house is lone, Where, dearest mother, is he wandering now?" "He is gone in a brighter home to dwell,

With beautiful creatures all love and joy, Where death comes not, and no sad farewell With its parting tone can his bliss alloy. He is gone to a happier home than ours,

Beneath the light of more radiant skies, And his path is bright with more lovely flowers Than in the sweet summer e'er met thine eyes. "Thou wilt meet him no more in the fields of earth For the pleasant days of his life are o'er, And the joyful peals of his laughing mirth

Will ring from our evening hearth no more.
Thou wilt see him no more as he used to be;

Thou wilt sleep by his side no more at night,
Nor with thee again will he bend the knee,
And his evening-prayer with thine unite!"
"Mother, his cheeks are cold and pale,

His eyes are closed, yet he does not sleep,
For he wakens not at my earnest call ;-

Is it death, dear mother,-that rest so deep?" "My child, his sleep is the sleep of death;

Yet we may not deem it a darkened lot, And his spirit, more pure than the breezes' breath, May be wandering near, though we know it not! And wish him not back, thou lonely child,

Though we miss his love, and his pleasant voice,Thou wilt soon to thy loss be reconciled,

And again in the summer-woods rejoice. "He dwells where the fields can never fade, Where night comes not, nor day is dim; Where the glory of God is the sun, and the shade Is the shadowing wing of the cherubim. And oh! in yon bright and happy land, Thou again mayst his sunny beauty see, And hear his voice, 'mid a joyful band,

From the shades of death as it welcomes thee!"

A POETICAL CHAPTER ON TAILS.

ONE evening three boys did their father assail,
With "tell us a tale, papa, tell us a tale!"
"A tale ?" said their father, "Oh yes! you shall see.
That a tale of all tails it this evening shall be;

A tale having reference to all tails whatever,
Of air or of ocean, of field or of river!
First the tail of a cat,-now this tail can express
All passions, all humours, than language no less."
"Oh, you 're joking, papa," cried at once all the three,
Yours are tails with an i, and not tales with an e!"
"Well, well," said their father, "I shall be surprised,
If my tails with an i in the end are despised;
So, sirs, I'll proceed: now this tail, as I said,
Expresses what moves her in heart or in head.
Is she pleased-you know it is quiet, no doubt;
Is she angry-you know how she wags it about;
Would she coax you,-she rubs, and she purrs, and
her tail,

With her back at right angles, she lifts like a rail;
Then the tail of a dog,-you need hardly be told,
What tales this same tail of a dog can unfold.
In his joy how he wags it-from turnspit to hound;
In his trouble, poor rogue! how it droops to the ground.
Then the tails of the horse and the cow, need I say!
What useful and excellent fly-traps are they?
But away! and the hot sandy deserts exploring,
Do you hear how the terrible lion is roaring!
And see in the thicket his fiery eye flashing,
And his furious tail on his tawny sides lashing!
Yes, he is the king of all beasts, and can send
Most marvellous power to his very tail's end.
The same with the tiger-and so of each kind,
The tail is a capital index of mind.

And the handsomest ladies I often have heard,
Give a monstrous price for the tail of this bird;
Then the sweet bird of Paradise-don't you remem-
ber

The beautiful creature we saw last November,
With his banner-like tail, that gracefully spread,
And was seen like a glory encircling his head?
Of that of the peacock no word will I say,
The thing is so common, you see it each day.
And now your attention to change I could wish
To a different tail-even that of a fish;
And no less than the tail of the bird is this made
With wonderful knowledge the creature to aid.
"Tis his helm, and with it no more could he keep,
Than a ship without rudder his place in the deep,
And the wisest philosophers all have decided,
That no fitter instrument could be provided.
That the shark, my dear boys, has a tail, without doubt,
From some book or other you've long since made out;
And you know how it puts, without hesitation,
The crew of a ship into great consternation,
When he flaps down his tail on the deck, and no
wonder,

For, like a sledge-hammer, it falleth in thunder;
And lest that its force 'gainst the ship should prevail,
The first thing they do, is to chop off its tail!
Besides there are others,-the monkey's tail; you
Know well what a monkey with his tail can do.
And have we forgotten the beaver? it yields

Suppose you were sleeping, the tree-roots your bed,
And this terrible monster had crept to your head,
And his tail should awake you,—I 'm sure you'd be
glad

That a tail with a larum the rattle-snake had.
Apropos of the snake-you've heard, I dare say,
Of the wasp and the hornet, and such things as they;
Of a venomous weapon they carry about,
And moreover, you all know, I make not a doubt,
That 't is placed in the tail, which same venomous
thing

The wise of all nations have christened a sting;
But the tail of a bird for no mischief is sent,
A most scientific, and good instrument,
Constructed, indeed, on an excellent plan,
Light, flexible too, and spread out like a fan;
"Tis ballast and rudder, which ill he could spare,
And a buoy to keep up the small creature in air.
Of the ostrich, the tail is an elegant thing,
Which is not despised by the mightiest king,

"T is the wagon he draws his materials upon,
"T is the trowel to finish his work when 't is done.
Of the fox, too, in Norway, you've heard, without fail,
How he angles for crabs with his great bushy tail.
And there is the pigtail that gentlemen wore,
With its various fashions, about half a score.
And the great cat-o'-nine tails! that terrible beast,
Has made itself famous by its tails, at least.
And the tail of a comet! that tail, in its strength,
Extending some thousands of miles in its length,
Is nothing to laugh at; a most awful thing,
That could sweep down the world with its terrible
swing!

And now since we've conned over bird, beast, and fish,
What greater amusement, my boys, could you wish?
But the next time, however, I think we must try
For some nobler subject than tails with an i:
And so, good night to each one, now this the last line
is-

And the book and the chapter shall here have their
FINIS.

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