Rosse. Wife, children, servants, all that could be

found.

Malcolm.

Be comforted:

Let's make us med'cines of our great revenge,

To cure this deadly grief.

Macduff. He has no children!

THE TOWN AND COUNTRY CHILD.

CHILD of the country! free as air
Art thou, and as the sunshine fair ;
Born, like the lily, where the dew
Lies odorous when the day is new;
Fed 'mid the May-flowers like the bee,
Nursed to sweet music on the knee,
Lulled in the breast to that glad tune

Which winds make 'mong the woods of June:

I sing of thee; 't is sweet to sing

Of such a fair and gladsome thing.

Child of the town! for thee I sigh;

A gilded roof's thy golden sky,

A carpet is thy daisied sod,

A narrow street thy boundless road,
Thy rushing deer 's the clattering tramp

Of watchmen, thy best light 's a lamp, —
Through smoke, and not through trellised vines.
And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines;

I sing of thee in sadness; where

Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair?
Child of the country! thy small feet
Tread on strawberries red and sweet;
With thee I wander forth to see

The flowers which most delight the bee;
The bush o'er which the throstle sung
In April, while she nursed her young;
The den beneath the sloe-thorn, where
She bred her twins, the timorous hare;
The knoll, wrought o'er with wild blue-bells,
Where brown bees build their balmy cells;
The green-wood stream, the shady pool,
Where trouts leap when the day is cool;
The shilfa's nest that seems to be
A portion of the sheltering tree,—
And other marvels which my verse
Can find no language to rehearse.

Child of the town! for thee, alas !

Glad nature spreads nor flowers nor grass;
Birds build no nests, nor in the sun-

Glad streams come singing as they run;
A May-pole is thy blossomed tree,
A beetle is thy murmuring bee;
Thy bird is caged, thy dove is where
Thy poulterer dwells, beside thy hare;
Thy fruit is plucked, and by the pound
Hawked clamorous all the city round;
No roses, twin-born on the stalk,
Perfume thee in thy evening walk
No voice of birds, but to thee comes
The mingled din of cars and drums,
And startling cries, such as are rife
When wine and wassail waken strife.

;

Child of the country! on the lawn
I see thee like the bounding fawn,
Blithe as the bird which tries its wing
The first time on the wings of Spring;
Bright as the sun when from the cloud
He comes as cocks are crowing loud;
Now running, shouting, 'mid sunbeams,
Now groping trouts in lucid streams,

Now spinning like a mill-wheel round,
Now hunting echo's empty sound,

Now climbing up some tall old tree
For climbing sake. 'T is sweet to thee
To sit where birds can sit alone,

Or share with thee thy venturous throne.

Child of the town and bustling street, What woes and snares await thy feet; Thy paths are paved for five long miles, Thy groves and hills are peaks and tiles; Thy fragrant air is yon thick smoke, Which shrouds thee like a mourning cloak; And thou art cabined and confined

At once from sun, and dew, and wind.

Fly from the town, sweet child! for health
Is happiness, and strength, and wealth.
There is a lesson in each flower,

A story in each stream and bower;
On every herb on which you tread
Are written words which, rightly read,
Will lead you from earth's fragrant sod
To hope, and holiness, and God.

EXTRACT FROM "TWO APRIL MORNINGS."

"A picture is a silent poem, a poem a speaking picture."

AND turning from the path, I met,
Beside the churchyard yew,

SIMONIDES.

A blooming girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.

A basket on her head she bare;
Her brow was smooth and white:
To see a child so very fair,

It was a pure delight!

No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripped with foot so free;
She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.

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