The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think;

From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink;

To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling;
But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but their story we cannot unfold;
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may come;
They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb.

They died, ay! they died! and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together like sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

'T is the wink of an eye, 't is the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,—
O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

WILLIAM KNOX.

The Whistler.

"You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood

While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight's decline,— "You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood: I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine."

"And what would you do with it? Tell me," she said, While an arch smile played over her beautiful face.

"I would blow it," he answered, "and then my fair maid Would fly to my side and would there take her place."

"Is that all you wish for? Why, that may be yours
Without any magic!" the fair maiden cried:
"A favor so slight one's good-nature secures;

And she playfully seated herself by his side.

"I would blow it again," said the youth; "and the charm Would work so that not even modesty's check

Would be able to keep from my neck your white arm.” She smiled and she laid her white arm round his neck.

"Yet once more I would blow; and the music divine

Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss,— You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine; And your lips stealing past it would give me a kiss."

The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee,— "What a fool of yourself with the whistle you 'd make! For only consider how silly 't would be

To sit there and whistle for what you might take."

ROBERT STORY.

We'll Go to Sea no More.

O, BLITHELY shines the bonny sun

Upon the Isle of May,

And blithely comes the morning tide

Into St. Andrew's Bay.

Then up, gudeman, the breeze is fair,
And up, my braw bairns three;
There 's goud in yonder bonny boat

That sails sae weel the sea!

When haddocks leave the Firth o' Forth,

An' mussels leave the shore,

When oysters climb up Berwick Law,
We'll go to sea no more,—
No more,

We'll go to sea no more.

I've seen the waves as blue as air,
I've seen them green as grass;
But I never feared their heaving yet,
From Grangemouth to the Bass.
I've seen the sea as black as pitch,
I've seen it white as snow;
But I never feared its foaming yet,
Though the winds blew high or low.
When squalls capsize our wooden walls,
When the French ride at the Nore,
When Leith meets Aberdour half way,
We'll go to sea no more,—
No more,

We'll go to sea no more.

I never liked the landsman's life,
The earth is aye the same;
Gie me the ocean for my dower,
My vessel for my hame.

Gie me the fields that no man plows,
The farm that pays no fee;

Gie me the bonny fish that glance

So gladly through the sea.

When sails hang flapping on the masts

While through the waves we snore,
When in a calm we 're tempest-tossed,
We'll go to sea no more,—
No more,

We'll go to sea no more.

The sun is up, and round Inchkeith

The breezes softly blaw;

The gudeman has the lines on board,—

Awa, my bairns, awa!

An' ye be back by gloamin' gray,

An' bright the fire will low,

An' in your tales and sangs we 'll tell
How weel the boat ye row.

When life's last sun gaes feebly down,
An' death comes to our door,

When a' the world 's a dream to us,

We'll go to sea no more,

No more,

We'll go to sea no more.

MISS CORBETT.

Eeehale.

THE blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore,

As sweetly and gayly as ever before;

For he knows to his mate he at pleasure can hie,
And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly.

The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright,

And reflects o'er the mountains as beamy a light

As it ever reflected, or ever expressed,

When my skies were the bluest, my dreams were the best. The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night,

Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light,

And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track,

For they know that their mates are expecting them back.

Each bird and each beast, it is blessed in degree;

All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me.

I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair;
I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair;
I will sit on the shore where the hurricane blows,
And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes;
I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed,
For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead;

But they died not by hunger, or lingering decay—
The steel of the white man hath swept them away.

This snake-skin, that once I so sacredly wore,
I will toss with disdain to the storm-beaten shore;
Its charms I no longer obey or invoke,

Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke.
I will raise up my voice to the source of the light;
I will dream on the wings of the blue-bird at night;
I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves,
And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves;
And will take a new Manito, such as shall seem
To be kind and propitious in every dream.

O, then I shall banish these cankering sighs,
And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes;
I shall wash from my face every cloud-colored stain;
Red, red shall alone on my visage remain!

I will dig up my hatchet, and bend my oak bow;
By night and by day I will follow the foe;

Nor lakes shall impede me, nor mountains, nor snows;
His blood can alone give my spirit repose.

They came to my cabin when heaven was black;
I heard not their coming, I knew not their track;
But I saw, by the light of their blazing fusees,
They were people engendered beyond the big seas.
My wife and my children-O, spare me the tale!
For who is there left that is kin to Geehale?

HENRY ROWE SCHOOLCRAFT.

I Would not Live Alway.

I WOULD not live alway: I ask not to stay
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way;
Where, seeking for rest, I but hover around
Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found;