All day the earthen floors have felt their feet
Twinkling quick measures to the liquid sound
Of their own small-piped voices shrilly sweet,-
As hand in hand they wheel'd their giddy round.
Ne'er fairy revels on the greensward mound,
To dreaming bard a lovelier show display'd:-
Titania's self did ne'er with lighter bound
Dance o'er the diamonds of the dewy glade,
Than danced, at peep of morn, mine own dear mountain maid.
Oft in her own small mirror had the gleam,
The soften'd gleam of her rich golden hair,
That o'er her white neck floated in a stream,
Kindled to smiles that infant's visage fair,
Half conscious she that beauty glisten'd there!
Oft had she glanced her restless eyes aside
On silken sash so bright and debonnair,
Then to her mother flown with leaf-like glide,
Who kiss'd her cherub-head with tears of silent pride.

MEDITATIONS ON SPRING.

The great sun,

Scattering the clouds with a resistless smile,
Came forth to do thee homage; a sweet hymn
Was by the low winds chanted in the sky;

And when thy feet descended on the earth,

Scarce could they move amid the clustering flowers,
By Nature strewn o'er valley, hill, and field,

To hail her bless'd deliverer!-Ye fair trees,

How are ye changed, and changing while I gaze!
It seems as if some gleam of verdant light
Fell on you from a rainbow; but it lives
Amid your tendrils, bright'ning every hour
Into a deeper radiance. Ye sweet birds,
Were you asleep through all the wintry hours,
Beneath the waters, or in mossy caves?—
Yet are ye not,

Sporting in tree and air, more beautiful

Than the young lambs, that from the valley side
Send a soft bleating, like an infant's voice,
Half happy, half afraid! O blessed things!
At sight of this your perfect innocence,
The sterner thoughts of manhood melt away
Into a mood as mild as woman's dreams.

A NIGHT AT SEA.

It is the midnight hour: the beauteous sea,

Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses,

While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee,

Far down within the watery sky reposes.

As if the Ocean's heart were stirr'd

With inward life, a sound is heard,

Like that of draser comoring in his sleep:
The party the Villow, and partly the air
That Des like a garment fting fair
Above the happy deep.

The wa, I ween, cannot be fann'd
By evening freshnes from the land,
For the land it is far away:

But God hath will'd that the sky-born breez
In the centre of the loneliest seas

Should ever sport and play.
The mighty Moon she sits above,
Encircled with a zone of love,
A zone of dim and tender light,
That makes her wakeful eye more bright:
She seems to shine with a sunny ray,
And the night looks like a mellow'd day!
The gracious Mistress of the Main
Hath now an undisturbed reign,

And from her silent throne looks down,

As upon children of her own,

On the waves that lend their gentle breast

In gladness for her couch of rest!

TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. JAMES GRAHAME, THE POET OF SCOTLAND.

How beautiful is genius when combined

With holiness! Oh, how divinely sweet

The tones of earthly harp, whose chords are touch'd

By the soft hand of Piety, and hung

Upon Religion's shrine, there vibrating

With solemn music in the ear of God!

And must the bard from sacred themes refrain?
Sweet were the hymns in patriarchal days,

That, kneeling in the silence of his tent,

Or on some moonlight hill, the shepherd pour'd
Unto his heavenly Father. Strains survive,
Erst chanted to the lyre of Israel,

More touching far than ever poet breathed
Amid the Grecian isles, or later times

Have heard in Albion, land of every lay.

*

Such glory, Grahame! thine. Thou didst despise
To win the ear of this degenerate age

By gorgeous epithets, all idly heap'd,

On theme of earthly state, or, idler still,

By tinkling measures and unchasten'd lays,
Warbled to pleasure and her siren train,
Profaning the best name of poesy.
With lottier aspirations, and an aim
More worthy man's immortal nature, then
That holiest Spirit that still loves to dwell
In the upright heart and pure, at noon of night

Didst fervently invoke, and, led by her
Above the Aonian mount, send from the stars
Of heaven such soul-subduing melody

As Bethlehem shepherds heard when Christ was born.

THE EVENING CLOUD-A SONNET.

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun,
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
Long had I watch'd the glory moving on
O'er the still radiance of the lake below;
Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow,
E'en in its very motion there was rest;

While every breath of eve that chanced to blow
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west.

Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onward to the golden gates of heaven,
Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

CAROLINE ANNE SOUTHEY, 1787-1854.

No English poetess has touched more tenderly the chords of the heart, or has gone down deeper into its well-springs, than Caroline Anne Bowles, afterwards Mrs. Southey. She was the daughter of Charles Bowles, Esq., of Buckland, and was born in 1787. She early showed great marks of genius, and especially a fondness for poetry. In 1820 she published her first work, Ellen Fitzarthur, a Metrical Tale; and shortly after, The Widow's Tale, and other Poems. These were followed by Birthday and other Poems; Solitary Hours, Poems; Tales of the Factories; Chapters on Churchyards; and a collection of prose and poetical pieces.

On the 5th of June, 1839, she became the second wife of the poet Southey, to whose declining and infirm age she ministered with the tenderness and sweet sympathy which kindred taste, admiring affection, and Christian love inspired, doing all that mortal power could do to render the last, sad years of the illustrious poet easy and comfortable. She wrote for him when he could no longer write, read to him when he was not allowed to read himself, and watched over him with untiring assiduity when he was no longer sensible of the value and devotion of these services. He died on the 21st of March, 1843, after which she spent most of her years in close retirement, and died in 1854. "No man," says Mr. Moir, "could have written such poetry as Mrs. Southey; at least no man has ever yet done so; it breathes of 'a purer ether, a diviner air' than that respired by the soi-disant lords of the creation; and, in its freedom from all moral blemish and blot, from all harshness and austerity of sentiment, from all the polluting taints which are apt to cleave to human thought, and its expansive sympathy with all that is holy, just, and of good report, it elevates the heart even more than it delights the fancy. We doubt if the

English language possesses any thing more profoundly pathetic toan Mra Southey's four tales, The Young Gray Head, The Murder Glen, Walter and William, and The Evening Walk; and I envy not the heart-construction of that family group of which the father could read these compositions aloud to his children either himself with an unfaltering voice, or without exciting their tears."

The following lyrics need no commendation from the critic: they reach every heart.

MARINER'S HYMN.

Launch thy bark, mariner!
Christian, God speed thee;
Let loose the rudder bands,
Good angels lead thee!
Set thy sails warily,
Tempests will come;
Steer thy course steadily,
Christian, steer home!

Look to the weather bow,

Breakers are round thee;
Let fall the plummet now,
Shallows may ground thee.
Reef in the foresail, there!
Hold the helm fast!
So, let the vessel wear,-
There swept the blast.

What of the night, watchman?
What of the night?
"Cloudy, all quiet,-

No land yet,-all's right.”

Be wakeful, be vigilant,-
Danger may be

At an hour when all seemeth
Securest to thee.

How! gains the leak so fast?
Clear out the hold,—
Hoist up thy merchandise,
Heave out thy gold;
There, let the ingots go;—
Now the ship rights;
Hurra! the harbor's near,-
Lo! the red lights.

Slacken not sail yet
At inlet or island;
Straight for the beacon steer,
Straight for the high land;
Crowd all thy canvas on,
Cut through the foam;-
Christian! cast anchor now,-
Heaven is thy home!

SANCTIFIED AFFLICTIONS.

I weep, but not rebellious tears;
I mourn, but not in hopeless woe;
I droop, but not with doubtful fears;
For whom I've trusted, Him I know.
Lord, I believe, assuage my grief,
And help, oh! help my unbelief.

My days of youth and health are o'er;
My early friends are dead and gone;
And there are times it tries me sore

To think I'm left on earth alone.
But yet Faith whispers, "Tis not so:
He will not leave, nor let thee go."

Blind eyes, fond heart, poor soul, that sought
For lasting bliss in things of earth;
Remembering but with transient thought
Thy heavenly home, thy second birth;
Till God in mercy broke at last

The bonds that held thee down so fast.

As link by link was rent away,

My heart wept blood, so sharp the pain;
But I have learn'd to count, this day,

That temporal loss, eternal gain;
For all that once detain'd me here
Now draws me to a holier sphere;

A holier sphere, a happier place,
Where I shall know as I am known,
And see my Saviour face to face,

And meet rejoicing round His throne
The faithful souls made perfect there
From earthly stains and mortal care.

The following is an analysis of one of her most pathetic tales, entitled The Young Gray Head. It opens with a cottager warning his wife to keep the children from school that morning, from the signs of an impending storm:

THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD.

I'm thinking that to-night, if not before,

There'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton roar?

It's brewing up, down westward; and look there!
One of those sea-gulls! ay, there goes a pair;

And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on,

As threats, the waters will be out anon.
That path by the ford's a nasty bit of way-
Best let the young ones bide from school to-day.

The children themselves join in this request; but the mother resolves that they should set out,-the two girls, Lizzy and Jenny, the one five and the other seven. The dame's will was law; so,

One last fond kiss

"God bless my little maids!" the father said;
And cheerily went his way to win their bread.

Prepared for their journey, they depart, with the mother's admonitions to the elder:

"Now, mind and bring

"Don't stay

Jenny safe home," the mother said.
To pull a bough or berry by the way;
And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast
Your little sister's hand till you're quite past—
That plank's so crazy, and so slippery,

If not o'erflow'd, the stepping-stones will be.
But you're good children-steady as old folk;
I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzy's cloak
(A good gray duffle) lovingly she tied,
And amply little Jenny's lack supplied

With her own warmest shawl. "Be sure," said she,

"To wrap it round, and knot it carefully

(Like this), when you come home,—just leaving free

One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away

Good will to school, and then good right to play."

The mother watched them as they went down the lane, overburdened with