Would follow the exiles, and float with its splendour

To gild the far land where their homes were to be.

In the eyes of my children were gladness and gleaming : Their little prayer uttered, how calm was their sleep! But I in my dreaming could hear the wind screaming, And fancy I heard hoarse replies from the deep.

And often, when slumber had cooled my brow's fever, A dream-uttered shriek of despair broke the spell; 'Twas the voice of the emigrants leaving the river, And startling the night with their cries of farewell.

Adelaide Anne Procter.

A DREAM.

ALL yesterday I was spinning,

Sitting alone in the sun;

And the dream that I spun was so lengthy,
It lasted till day was done.

I heeded not cloud or shadow

That flitted over the hill,

Or the humming-bees, or the swallows,

Or the trickling of the rill.

I took the threads for my spinning,

All of blue summer air,

And a flickering ray of sunlight

Was woven in here and there.

The shadows grew longer and longer,
The evening wind passed by,
And the purple splendour of sunset
Was flooding the western sky.

But I could not leave my spinning,
For so fair my dream had grown,

I heeded not, hour by hour,

How the silent day had flown.

At last the gray shadows fell round me,
And the night came dark and chill,
And I rose and ran down the valley,
And left it all on the hill.

I went up the hill this morning

To the place where my spinning lay, There was nothing but glistening dewdrops Remained of my dream to-day.

Be hers the prairie's golden grain,
The desert's golden sand,
The clustered fruits of sunny Spain,

The spice of morning-land!
Her pathway on the open main
May blessings follow free,

And glad hearts welcome back again
Her white sails from the sea!

Nathaniel Parker Willis.

Born 1807.

ON A PICTURE OF A GIRL,

LEADING HER BLIND MOTHER THROUGH A WOOD.

THE green leaves as we pass

Lay their light fingers on thee unaware,

And by thy side the hazels cluster fair,

And the low forest grass

Grows green and silken where the wood-paths windAlas! for thee, sweet mother! thou art blind!

And nature is all bright;

And the faint gray and crimson of the dawn,
Like folded curtains from the day are drawn ;
And evening's purple light

Quivers in tremulous softness on the sky—
Alas! sweet mother! for thy clouded eye!

The moon's new silver shell

Trembles above thee, and the stars float up,
In the blue air, and the rich tulip's cup
Is pencilled passing well,

And the swift birds on glorious pinions flee—
Alas! sweet mother! that thou canst not see!

And the kind looks of friends

Peruse the sad expression in thy face,
And the child stops amid his bounding race,
And the tall stripling bends

Low to thine ear with duty unforgot-
Alas! sweet mother! that thou seest them not!

But thou canst hear! and love

May richly in a human tone be poured,
And the least cadence of a whispered word
A daughter's love may prove-

And while I speak thou knowest if I smile,
Albeit thou canst not see my face the while.

Yes, thou canst hear! and He

Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hung,
To the attentive ear, like harps, hath strung
Heaven and earth and sea!

And 'tis a lesson in our hearts to know

With but one sense the soul may overflow.

Mrs. L. H. Sigourney.

THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON FROM ST. HELENA.

Ho! City of the gay!

Paris! what festal rite

Doth call thy thronging millions forth,

All eager for the sight?
Thy soldiers line the streets

In fixed and stern array,
With buckled helm and bayonet,

As on the battle-day.

By square, and fountain side,
Heads in dense masses rise,
And tower, and battlement, and tree,
Are studded thick with eyes.
Comes there some conqueror home

In triumph from the fight,
With spoil and captives in his train,
The trophies of his might?

The "Arc de Triomphe" glows!
A martial host are nigh,
France pours in long succession forth
Her pomp of chivalry.