DAVID WINGATE.

Yet no place to me hath a beauty so rare:

How softly the bell sent its Sabbath-call there!
How dear were its woods and its meadows to me!-

I knew every buttercup-knew every tree;

I knew where the earliest blackbird would sing,
I knew where the loveliest blue-bells would spring;
In Spring, where the Robin's warm nest I should see;
In Autumn, where hazels and brambles would be:
I knew on what thorn the best haws could be found,
Where chestnuts would fall, and where "rowans" most abound.
There love bade me first shun the rude mirthful throng;
There first in my heart swelled the joy-spring of song;
There first, for my song's sake, my kin called me "fool;"
There friendship had birth that no trials can cool.
Away in the west crumbling Crookston was seen-
How smooth was the pasture-land stretching between!
And round to the west, when you let your eye roam,
Half seen through the trees, peered the Baronet's home.
And yonder, where billowy banks swell so green,
The far-travelled river meanders unseen;

I hear its low music come o'er the moor still,
As the first star of evening beams o'er Bangor Hill-
When the last note hath died of the wood's vesper hymn,
And Crookston's rough outline grows dim and more dim.
How bright were its waters when woodlands grew brown!
How grand were the floods which in winter swept down!
I still can remember my boyhood's delight,

To gaze on the ocean that grew in a night;
And how, as I gazed on the brown heaving sea,

I thought how sublime the great ocean would be.
Dear Village! in thee I had no worldly strife,

I left thee to enter the battle of life;

And till the last stroke of that battle is fought,

For thee I'll reserve a blithe dream-a sweet thought.

THIS rural Sabbath, ere the psalms begin,

Let it come freely in!

A little living miracle it seems,

Come down on the sun's beams,

To preach of nature's gladness all day long.
Chief of the insect throng!

Tiny patrician! on whose bannery wings
Are bright emblazonings,

JAMES HEDDERWICK.

Wherefore beneath this roof disport thyself,
Mysterious, wayward elf?

Proclaim thy mission! Dost thou come to tell

Of spangled mead and dell—

Of the rich clover-beds, of humming bees,

And high o'erarching trees?

Thou seem'st the very colours to have sipped

From wild-flowers rosy-lipped;

Hast thou, then, left them pale? and com'st thou here,

In penitence and fear?

Or art thou-sacred thought!-a spirit come

To worship 'neath this dome

A soul still laden with a worldly love,

Finding no rest above?

Ah, garish creature! thou. art now astray,

And fain wouldst be away!

Hadst thou a tongue, I know thou'dst ask where dwell

The flowers thou lov'st so well,

Whose little fragrant chalices are filled

With dew-drops fresh distilled?

I know thou'dst ask where shines the blessed sun,
And where the small brooks run?

This is no place, no temple meet for thee

Away, thou shouldst be free!

Go, like a child's thought, to the sunny air!
Be thou a preacher there!

Preach 'mid the congregation of the flowers,
Through Summer's fleeting hours-

Thyself a living witness of His might
Who gave thee to the light!

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.

MORNING AND MEETING.

ONE yellow star, the largest and the last
Of all the lovely night, was fading slow,
As fades a happy moment in the past,

Out of the changing east, when, yet aglow
With dreams her looks made magical, from sleep
I waked; and oped the lattice. Like a rose
All the red-opening morning 'gan disclose
A ripened light upon the distant steep.

A bell was chiming through the crystal air
From the high convent-church upon the hill.
The folk were loitering by to matin prayer.

The church-bell called me out, and seemed to fill The air with little hopes. I reached the door Before the chaunted hymn began to rise,

And float its liquid latin melodies

O'er pious groups about the marble floor.

Breathless, I slid among the kneeling folk.

A little bell went tinkling through the pause Of inward prayer. Then forth the low chaunt broke Among the glooming aisles, that through a gauze Of sunlight glimmered.

Thickly throbbed my blood.

I saw, dark-tressèd in the rose-lit shade,

Many a little dusk Italian maid,

Kneeling with fervent face close where I stood.

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.

The morning, all a misty splendour, shook
Deep in the mighty window's flame-lit webs.
It touched the crowned Apostle with his hook,
And brightened where the sea of jasper ebbs
About those Saints' white feet that stand serene
Each with his legend, each in his own hue
Attired: some beryl-golden: sapphire-blue
Some: and some ruby-red: some emerald-green.

Wherefrom, in rainbow-wreaths, the rich light rolled
About the snowy altar, sparkling clean.
The organ groaned and pined, then, growing bold,
Revelled the cherubs' golden wings atween.
And in the light, beneath the music, kneeled,
As pale as some stone Virgin bending solemn
Out of the red gleam of a granite column,
Irene with clasped hands and cold lips sealed.

As one who, pausing on some mountain-height, Above the breeze that breaks o'er vineyard walls, Leans to the impulse of a wild delight,

Bows earthward, feels the hills bow too, and fallsI dropped beside her. Feeling seemed to expand And close: a mist of music filled the air: And, when it ceased in heaven, I was aware That, through a rapture, I had touched her hand.

THE CHESS-BOARD.

My little love, do you remember
Ere we were grown so sadly wise,
Those evenings in the bleak December,
Curtained warm from the snowy weather,