The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay,

And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?

Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers

*Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.

The rain is falling where they lie; but cold November rain

Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago, And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade and glen.

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home,

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream

no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty

died,

The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side:

In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;

Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of ours,

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the

flowers.

BRYANT.

Note.-We have placed the two preceding specimens of foreign and native poetry, on the same subject, together, that the reader may draw a fair comparison between them.

SONNET.

As thus oppress'd with many a heavy care
(Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet
To the dark woodland,-longing much to greet
The form of Peace, if chance she sojourns there,-
Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair,

Fills my sad breast and tired with this vain coil
I shrink dismay'd before life's upland toil,
And as amid the leaves the evening air

Whispers still melody, I think, ere long, When I no more can hear, these woods will speak! And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek, And mournful phantasies upon me throng: And I do think with a most strange delight On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night.

H. K. WHITE.

TO CONSUMPTION.

GENTLY, most gently on thy victim's head,
Consumption, lay thine hand! Let me decay
Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away,
And softly go to slumber with the dead!
And if 'tis true what holy men have said
That strains angelic oft foretell the day
Of death to those good men who fall thy prey,
O, let th' aerial music round my bed
Dissolving slow in dying symphony

Whisper the solemn warning to my ear:
That I may bid my weeping friends good bye
Ere I depart upon my journey drear;
And, smiling faintly on the painful past,
Compose my decent head, and breathe my last.
H. K. WHITE.

EVENING MUSIC OF THE ANGELS.

Low warblings, now, and solitary harps,
Were heard among the angels, touch'd and tuned
As to an evening hymn, preluding soft

To cherub voices. Louder as they swell'd,
Deep strings struck in, and hoarser instruments,
Mix'd with clear silver sounds, till concord rose
Full as the harmony of winds to heaven;
Yet sweet as nature's springtide melodies
To some worn pilgrim, first, with glistening eyes,
Greeting his native valley, whence the sounds
Of rural gladness, herds, and bleating flocks,
The chirp of birds, blithe voices, lowing kine,
The dash of waters, reed, or rustic pipe,
Blent with the dulcet distance-mellow'd
Come, like the echo of his early joys.
In every pause, from spirits in mid air,
Responsive still were golden viols heard,
And heavenly symphonies stole faintly down.

bell,

HILLHOUSE.

TO A CHILD.

THY memory, as a spell
Of love, comes o'er my mind-
As dew upon the purple bell-
As perfume on the wind;-
As music on the sea-

As sunshine on the river;-
So hath it always been to me,
So shall it be for ever.

I hear thy voice in dreams

Upon me softly call,

Like echoes of the mountain streams

In sportive waterfall.

I see thy form as when

Thou wert a living thing,

And blossom'd in the eyes of men,

Like any flower of spring.

Thy soul to heaven hath fled,
From earthly thraldom free;
Yet, 't is not as the dead
That thou appear'st to me.
In slumber I behold

Thy form, as when on earth,
Thy locks of waving gold,
Thy sapphire eye of mirth.

I hear, in solitude,

The prattle kind and free,
Thou uttered'st in joyful mood
While seated on my knee.
So strong each vision seems,
My spirit that doth fill,
I think not they are dreams,
But that thou livest still.

ANON.

SONG.

FLY to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;

But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with love, or thrones without?

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
The acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less
For flowing in a wilderness.

Our sands are bare, but down their slope
The silvery-footed antelope

As gracefully and gaily springs,
As o'er the marble courts of kings.

Then come,-thy Arab maid will be
The loved and lone acacia-tree;
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.

Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,-
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought;

As if the very lips and eyes
Predestined to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then!

So came thy very glance and tone,
When first on me they breathed and shone,
New, as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if loved for years!

Then fly with me,-if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.