Yet change is here; when we were wont to stray
From morn till eve these woody banks among,
Thick hung the hawthorn blossoms from the spray,
And birds of spring in every thicket sung;
And, like a shower of gold, the bonny broom
Flung to the amorous gale her buds of rich perfume.

Now autumn looks o'er fields of ripen'd corn,
And sere leaves rustle where our footsteps fall,
Few and unfrequent now the notes are borne,
That made these solitudes so musical:
And so it is with us, for life no more,
Though happy still, is spring time as of yore.

Ay, we are changed: upon thy noble brow

Dwells the deep musing meet for manhood's prime ;} Thy step is firmer, and thy rich locks now

Åre somewhat darken'd by the touch of time, And graver cares are round thy spirit twined, Than in these shades thy childhood left behind.

Yet, though time sports with outward forms at will,
In deeper things his breath has scarce been felt,
And the long lapse of years doth find us still

Before the shrines at which our childhood knelt;
And what in those young days we wont to prize
Are still the same, the dearest in our eyes.

Still, as of yore, 'tis thy delight to bend

Where some bold river thunders on its course,
Where cataracts in whiten'd showers descend,
Deafening the air with clamour loud and hoarse,
Thou lovest to ply the angler's silent art,
Alone with nature, and thy own deep heart.

Thou hast gone forth to mingle with the world,
And breath'd the air of many a foreign clime;

But from thy spirit never has been hurl'd

The warm, fresh feeling of that early time; And I behold the glory of thy youth,

Blest with an honest heart of kindliness and truth.

For we, though years have borne upon their flight
A thousand joys my childhood could not dream,
My soul has ever found its chief delight

By lonely mountain glen, or gushing stream.
And life can yield no pleasure and no pride
Dearer than this,-to wander by thy side.

And should we hither stray, when young romance
Has faded in the world's ungenial air,
And the soft lightning of the eagle glance
In those dark eyes, be seen but faintly there,
Oh! may we find in nature's beauty still
A joy all shadowless, a charm for every ill!

A CHILD PRAYING.

The Rev. R. A. WILLMOTT has lately published a little volume of poems of the sentimental school, very pretty, and some of them very elegantly written. A fair specimen of his style is this one.

Fold thy little hands in prayer;

Bow down at thy mother's knee;

Now thy sunny face is fair,

Shining through thine auburn hair;

Thine eyes are passion free;

And pleasant thoughts, like garlands, bind thee
Unto thy home, yet grief may find thee-

Then pray, child, pray!

Now, thy young heart, like a bird,
Warbles in its summer nest;

No evil thought, no unkind word,
No chilling autumn winds have stirr'd
The beauty of thy rest;

But winter hastens, and decay

Shall waste thy verdant home away

Then pray, child, pray!

Thy bosom is a house of glee,
With gladness harping at the door;
While ever, with a joyous shout,
Hope, the May queen, dances out,
Her lips with music running o'er;
But time those strings of joy will sever,
And hope will not dance on for ever-
'T'hen pray, child, pray

Now, thy mother's arm is spread
Beneath thy pillow in the night;
And loving feet creep round thy bed,
And o'er thy quiet face is shed

The taper's darken'd light;

But that fond arm will pass away,

By thee no more those feet will stay-
Then pray, child, pray!

!

TIME.

KNOX is the author of the following vigorous lines.

Time speeds away-away-away;

Another hour-another day,

Another month-another year

Drop from us like the leaflets sere;

Drop like the life-blood from our hearts;

The rose-bloom from the cheek departs,

The tresses from the temples fall,

The eye grows dim, and strange to all.

Time speeds away-away-away;
Like torrent in a stormy day;
He undermines the stately tower,
Uproots the tree, and snaps the flower;
And sweeps from our distracted breast

The friends that loved, the friends that bless'd;
And leaves us weeping on the shore,
To which they can return no more.

Time speeds away-away-away;
No eagle through the skies of day,
No wind along the hills can flee
So swiftly or so smooth as he.
Like fiery steed, from stage to stage
He bears us on-from youth to age,
Then plunges in the fearful sea
Of fathomless eternity.

RECOLLECTIONS.

By Mrs. LOUISA P. SMITH, a poetess of America.

I'VE pleasant thoughts that memory brings, in moments free from care,

Of a fairy-like and laughing girl, with roses in her hair;
Her smile was like the starlight of summer's softest skies;
And worlds of joyousness there shone, from out her witching

eyes.

Her looks were looks of melody, her voice was like the swell Of sudden music, notes of mirth, that of wild gladness tell; She came like spring, with pleasant sounds of sweetness and of mirth,

And her thoughts were those wild, flowery ones, that linger not on earth.

A quiet goodness beam'd amid the beauty of her face,
And all she said and did, was with its own instinctive grace;
She seem'd as if she thought the world a good and pleasant

one,

And her light spirit saw no ill, in all beneath the sun.

I've dream'd of just such creatures, but they never met my view,

'Mid the sober, dull reality, in their earthly form and hue. And her smile came gently o'er me, like spring's first scented airs,

And made me think life was not all a wilderness of cares.

I know not of her destiny, or where her smile now strays, But the thought of her comes o'er me, with my own lost sunny days,

With moonlight hours, and far-off friends, and many pleasant things,

That have gone the way of all the earth on time's resistless wings.

THE LADY'S YES.

By ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING,

"YES!" I answered you last night;
"No!" this morning, sir, I say!
Colours seen by candle-light,

Will not look the same by day.

When the tabors play'd their best,
Lamps above, and laughs below-
Love me sounded like a jest,

Fit for Yes or fit for No!

Call me false or call me free-
Vow, whatever light may shine,

No man on thy face shall see
Any grief for change on mine.

Yet the sin is on us both

Time to dance is not to woo-
Wooer light makes fickle troth-
Scorn of me recoils on you!

Learn to win a lady's faith
Nobly as the thing is high;
Bravely, as for life and death-
With a loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards,
Point her to the starry skies,
Guard her, by your truthful words,
Pure from courtship's flatteries.