THE COTTAGE GIRL.-ETC.
Whose gentle voice, too early call'd
Unto Music's land away,
Had won for God the earth's enthrall'd,
By words of silvery sway.
These were his victories-yet enroll'd
In no high song of fame,
The pastor of the mountain-fold
Left but to heaven his name.
To heaven and to the peasant's hearth,
A blessed household sound-
And finding lowly love on earth,
Enough, enough, he found!
Bright and more bright before me gleam'd
That sainted image still;
Till one sweet moonlight memory seem'd
The regal fane to fill.
Oh! how my silent spirit turn'd
From those proud trophies nigh!
How my full heart within me burn'd
Like Him to live and die!
THE COTTAGE GIRL.
A CHILD beside a hamlet's fount at play,
Her fair face laughing at the sunny day;
A gush of waters tremulously bright
Kindling the air to gladness with their light;
And a soft gloom beyond of summer trees,
Darkening the turf, and shadow'd o'er by these,
A low, dim, woodland cottage-this was all!
What had the scene for memory to recall
With a fond look of love! What secret spell
With the heart's pictures made its image dwell?
What but the spirit of the joyous child,
'That freshly forth o'er stream and verdure smiled,
Casting upon the common things of earth
A brightness, born and gone with infant mirth!
I LOOK'D on the field, where the battle was spread,
When thousands stood forth in their glancing array;
And the beam from the steel of the valiant was shed
Through the dun-rolling clouds that o'ershadow'd the fray.
I saw the dark forest of lances appear,
As the ears of the harvest unnumber'd they stood,
I heard the stern shout as the foemen drew near,
Like the storm that lays low the proud pines of the wood.
Afar, the harsh notes of the war-drum were roll'd,
Uprousing the wolf from the depth of his lair;
On high to the gust stream'd the banner's red fold,
O'er the death-close of hate, and the scowl of despair.
I look'd on the field of contention again,
When the sabre was sheath'd and the tempest had past;
And the wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain,
And the fern softly sigh'd in the low wailing blast.
Unmoved lay the lake in its hour of repose,
And bright shone the stars through the sky's deepen'd blu: ;
And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose.
Where the fox-glove lay gemm'd with its pearl-drops of dew.
But where swept the ranks of that dark frowning host,
As the ocean in might as the storm-cloud in speed!
Where now were the thunders of victory's boast-
The slayer's dread wrath, and the strength of the steed?
Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering stone,
To mark the lone scene of their shame or their pride;
One grass-cover'd mound told the traveller alone,
Where thousands lay down in their anguish, and died !
Oh, glory! behold thy famed guerdon's extent:
For this, toil thy slaves through their earth-wasting lot;
A name like the mist, when the night-beams are spent-
A grave with its tenants unwept and forgot!
"Can guilt or misery ever enter here?
Ah! no, the spirit of domestic peace,
Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove,
And ever murmuring forth a quiet song,
Guards, powerful as the sword of cherubim,
The hallow'd porch. She hath a heavenly smile,
That sinks into the sullen soul of vice,
And wins him o'er to virtue."-Wilson.
My father's house once more,
In its own moonlight beauty! Yet around,
Something amidst the dewy calm profound,
Broods, never mark'd before!
Is it the brooding night,
Is it the shivery creeping on the air,
That makes the home, so tranquil and so fair,
O'erwhelming to my sight?
All solemnized it seems,
And still'd, and darken'd in each time-worn hue,
Since the rich clustering roses met my view,
As now, by starry gleams.
A THOUGHT OF PARADISE.
And this high elm, where last
I stood and linger d-where my sisters made
Our mother's bower-I deem'd not that it cast
So far and dark a shade!
Sighs through yon tree! My father's place was there At evening hours, while soft winds waved his hair! Now those grey locks are gone!
My soul grows faint with fear! Even as if angel steps had mark'd the sod. I tremble where I move-the voice of God Is in the foliage here!
That makes my home so awful! Faithless hearted!
"Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed
The inborn gladd'ning light!
No outward thing is changed;
Only the joy of purity is fled,
And, long from nature's melodies estranged,
Thou hear'st their tones with dread.
Therefore the calm abode,
By thy dark spirit, is o'erhung with shade;
And therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God
Makes thy sick heart afraid!
The night-flowers round that door
Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air;
Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more
To pass, and rest thee there.
And must I turn away?—
Hark, hark!-it is my mother's voice I hear-
Sadder than once it seem'd-yet soft and clear-
Doth she not seem to pray?
My name!-I caught the sound!
Oh! blessed tone of love-the deep, the mild-
Mother, my mother! Now receive thy child,
Take back the lost and found!
A THOUGHT OF PARADISE.
"We receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does nature live;
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroua;
And, would we aught behold of higher worth
Than that inanimate cold world allow'd
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud,
Enveloping the earth;
And from the soul itself must there be sent
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