The boy gazed upward into space,
With eager and inquiring eyes,
Whilst o'er his sweet and thoughtful face
Came a faint glory, and a grace
Transmitted from the skies.

Ere the last odorous sigh of May
That child lay down beneath the sod!
Like dew, his young soul pass'd away,
To mingle with the brighter day
That veils the throne of God.

Mother, thy fond, foreboding heart
Truly foretold thy loss and pain,
But thou didst choose the patient part
Of resignation to the smart,

And own'd his loss thy gain.

THE PICTURE OF T. C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS.

By old ANDREW MARVELL, quaint, but highly fanciful.

SEE with what sweet simplicity
The nymph begins her golden days!
In the green grass she loves to lie,
And there, with her fair aspect, tames
The wilder flowers, and gives them names:
But only with the roses plays,

And them does tell

What colour best becomes them, and what smell.

*

Meantime, whilst every verdant thing
Itself does at thy beauty charm,
Reform the errors of the spring;
Make that the tulips may have share
Of sweetness, seeing they are fair;
And roses of their thorns disarm :

But most procure

That violets may a longer age endure.

But, O young beauty of the woods,
Whom nature courts with fruits and flowers,
Gather the flowers but spare the buds;
Lest Flora, angry at thy crime,

To kill the infants in their prime,

Should quickly make the example yours,
And e'er we see,

Nip, in the blossom, all our hopes in thee.

THE OLD ELM.

A pretty poem, by an American author called by the very unpoetical name of McJILTON, will please.

THOU standest on the forest-edge, proud monarch of the

wood,

Thy sturdy form the goings forth of many a storm hath

stood;

Age doth not seem to weaken thee; thy greenness doth not fail;

In years to come thy hoary head shall bow before the gale.

Thou art a faithful sentinel, and time hath fix'd thee there, To mark the flight of blighting years as ever on they wear; And thou the winter's sweeping blast, thy leaves the young spring rain,

The flowering summer hath renew'd thy emerald robes again.

Like a true friend, old favoured Elm, thy form to me appears: Strange visions of wild fantasy come up from other years; And shades of dark mysterious gloom are o'er my senses

cast,

While musing on the varied scenes that crowd the fertile past.

How many young and happy hearts have thrill'd in wild delight,

Anticipating richer bliss in manhood's glorious might; Trusting the world's bright promises-more bright, alas! than true,

Beneath the deep and ample shade thy towering branches threw !

And many forms of fairest mould, and cheeks of youthful

bloom,

Have passed to manhood, and to age, and to the dreary

tomb,

While thou wert waving in thy pride-a prince among the trees,

With all thy glowing pinions spread in beauty on the breeze.

Oft hast thou seen the flaxen locks on childhood's brow of snow,

Uplifted by the slightest breeze, in graceful ringlets flow: Hast seen them thicken and assume a darker, sterner hue, Until the hand of age at length the silver o'er them threw.

And thou hast mark'd the ruddy cheek, and forehead bright and fair,

Before time's iron hand had writ on them a line of care; The cheek before thy sight has blanch'd, the forehead furrow'd o'er,

And both were placed beneath the sod, to bloom and blanch

no more.

My grandsire, when a thoughtless boy, beneath thy boughs has laid;

My father's form of infancy was cradled in thy shade;

And thou hast seen life's changing flood full often o'er them

sweep;

Now shelter'd from the winter's storms, and watch'd by thee, they sleep.

And I—the wayward youth, the man-have wander'd near thy side;

Matured in strength, before thee now I stand in manhood's pride;

Beside the dead a narrow place untenanted I see;

Soon with my fathers I may rest,—that place is left for me

Ere long the greensward at thy base will show another grave And over me as green as now will thy long branches wave; And other feet shall wander here and other hearts be gay, When I, like my ancestral race, from earth have pass'd

away.

And summer suns will roll on high as brilliantly as e'er,
And summer skies, as broad, as blue, as beautiful, as clear,
Will shine above the busy world, when life with me is done,
And few, ah! very few indeed, will know that I am gone.

THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT.

Several of the productions of BRYANT, the prince of the American poets, have already graced these selections. They are distinguished for refined elegance rather than for power; they are beautiful, not grand. A sweet strain, most musical, most melancholy.

An Indian girl was sitting where
Her lover, slain in battle, slept;
Her maiden veil, her own black hair,
Came down o'er her eyes that wept;
And wildly, in her woodland tongue,
This sad and simple lay she sung :-

"I've pull'd away the shrubs that grew
Too close above thy sleeping head,
And broke the forest boughs that threw
Their shadows o'er thy bed,

That, shining from the sweet south-west,
The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest..

"It was a weary, weary road

That led thee to the pleasant coast,
Where thou, in his serene abode,
Hast met thy father's ghost;
Where everlasting autumn lies
On yellow woods and sunny skies.

"'Twas I the broider'd moc'sin made,
That shod thee for that distant land;
'Twas I thy bow and arrow laid
Beside thy still, cold hand—
Thy bow in many a battle bent,
Thy arrows never vainly sent.

"With wampum belts I cross'd thy breast,
And wrapp'd thee in thy bison's hide,
And laid the food that pleased thee best
In plenty by thy side,

And deck'd thee bravely, as became
A warrior of illustrious name.

"Thou r't happy now, for thou hast pass'd
The long dark journey of the grave,
And in the land of light, at last,

Hast joined the good and brave-
Amid the flush'd and balmy air,
The bravest and the loveliest there.

"Yet oft thine own dear Indian maid,

Even there, thy thoughts will earthward stray-
To her who sits where thou wert laid,
And weeps the hours away,

Yet almost can her grief forget
To think that thou dost love her yet.

"And thou, by one of those still lakes,
That in a shining cluster lie,

On which the south wind scarcely breaks
The image of the sky,

A bower for thee and me hast made
Beneath the many-colour'd shade.

"And thou dost wait to watch and meet
My spirit sent to join the blest,
And, wondering what detains my feet
From the bright land of rest,
Dost seem, in every sound, to hear
The rustling of my footsteps near."