ALFRED B. STREET's picturesque sketches of American Forest Scenery are excellent. It is evident that he is a lover of the meadows, woods, and streams, as well as of the wildest and most romantic of Nature's solitudes. Shall we roam with him through one of our primeval wildernesses :

A lovely sky, a cloudless sun,

A wind that breathes of leaves and flowers,
O'er hill, through dale, my steps have won,
To the cool forest's shadowy bowers:
One of the paths all round that wind,
Traced by the browsing herds I choose,
And sights and sounds of human-kind
In Nature's lone recesses lose :
The beech displays its marbled bark,

The spruce its green tent stretches wide,
While scowls the hemlock, grim and dark,
The maple's scalloped dome beside :

All weave on high a verdant roof,
That keeps the very sun aloof,

Making a twilight soft and green,

Within the columned vaulted scene.

Sweet forest-odours have their birth

From the clothed boughs and teeming earth;

Where pine-cones dropped, leaves piled and dead,

Long tufts of grass, and stars of fern,
With many a wild-flower's fancy urn,

A thick, elastic carpet spread;
Here, with its mossy pall, the trunk,
Resolving into soil, is sunk;

There, wrenched but lately from its throne,

By some fierce whirlwind circling past,
Its huge roots massed with earth and stone,
One of the woodland kings is cast.

Seems net-work as I enter there.

The partridge, whose deep-rolling drum

Afar has sounded on my ear,

Ceasing his beatings as I come,

Whirrs to the sheltering branches near;

The little milk-snake glides away,

The brindled marmot dives from day :
And now, between the boughs, a space
Of the blue, laughing sky I trace:

On each side shrinks the bowery shade;
Before me spreads an emerald glade;
The sunshine steeps its grass and moss,
That couch my footsteps as I cross :
Merrily hums the tawny bee,
The glittering humming-bird I see;
Floats the bright butterfly along,
The insect choir is loud in song;
A spot of light and life it seems,
A fairy haunt for fancy dreams.
Here stretched, the pleasant turf I press,
In luxury of idleness;

Sun-streaks, and glancing wings, and sky,
Spotted with cloud-shapes, charm my eye;
While murmuring grass, and waving trees,
Their leaf-harps sounding to the breeze,
And water-tones that tinkle near,
Blend their sweet music to my ear;
And by the changing shades alone
The passage of the hours is known.

These fine lines, to The Nightingale, are by HARTLEY COLE

RIDGE

'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark, that bids a blithe good-morrow; But sweeter to hark in the twinkling dark to the soothing song of

sorrow.

Oh, nightingale, what does she ail? And is she sad or jolly?
For ne'er on earth was sound of mirth so like to melancholy.
The merry lark, he soars on high, no worldly thought o'ertakes him;

He sings aloud to the calm blue sky, and the daylight that awakes

him.

As sweet a lay, as loud, as gay, the nightingale is trilling:
With feeling bliss, no less than his, her little heart is thrilling.
Yet ever and anon a sigh peers through her lavish mirth;
For the lark's bold song is of the sky, and hers is of the earth.
By night and day she tunes her lay, to drive away all sorrow;
For bliss, alas! to-night must pass, and woe may come to-morrow.

Some beautiful lines have been written by a blind Irish girl, named FRANCES BROWN. We present the following extract, as a specimen; it is about the Woodland Streams :

Your murmurs bring the pleasant breath of many a sylvan scene;
They tell of sweet and sunny vales, and woodlands wildly green;
Ye cheer the lonely heart of age, ye fill the exile's dreams
With hope, and home, and memory,-ye unforgotten streams.

The bards the ancient bards-who sang when thought and song

were new,

O, mighty waters! did they learn their minstrelsy from you?

For still, methinks, your voices blend with all their glorious themes,
That flow forever fresh and free as the eternal streams!

Well might the sainted seer of old, who trod the tearless shore,
Like many waters deem the voice the angel hosts adore!
For still, where deep the rivers roll, afar the torrent gleams,
Our spirits hear the voice of God, amid the rush of streams!

PROCTOR'S ("Barry Cornwall") poetry is characterized by graceful images, couched in glowing words. His lyrics are especially choice; for instance, how glowing and voluptuous, yet how pure, is the following description of A Chamber Scene:—

Tread softly through these amorous rooms;

For every bough is hung with life,

And kisses, in harmonious strife,
Unloose their sharp and winged perfumes!
From Afric, and the Persian looms,

The carpet's silken leaves have sprung,
And heaven, in its blue bounty, fung
Those starry flowers, and azure blooms.

Tread softly! By a creature fair
The deity of Love reposes,

His red lips open, like the roses
Which round his hyacinthine hair
Hang in crimson coronals;

And Passion fills the arched halls;
And Beauty floats upon the air.

Tread softly-softly, like the foot

Of Winter, shod with fleecy snow,
Who cometh white, and cold, and mute,
Lest he should wake the Spring below.
Oh, look! for here lie Love and Youth,
Fair spirits of the heart and mind;
Alas! that one should stray from truth,
And one-be ever, ever blind!

Hear his homily on the Brevity of Life:

We are born, we laugh, we weep, we love, we droop,—we die! Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep? why do we live or die?

Who knows that secret deep?-Alas! not I.

Why doth the violet spring, unseen by human eye?

Why do the radiant seasons bring sweet thoughts, that quickly fly ?

Why do our fond hearts cling to things that die?

We toil through pain and wrong; we fight-and fly;

We love, we lose; and then, ere long, stone-dead we lie!

O life! is all thy song-endure, and—die ?