The lambs like snow all nibbling go upon the ferny hills; Light winds are in the leafy woods, and birds, and bubbling

rills,

Then welcome, little swallow, by our morning lattice heard, Because thou com'st when Nature bids bright days be thy reward!

Thine be sweet mornings with the bee that's out for honeydew;

And glowing be the noontide for the grasshopper and you; And mellow shine, o'er day's decline, the sun to light thee home:

What can molest thy airy nest? sleep till the day-spring come!

The river blue that rushes through the valley hears thee sing, And murmurs much beneath the touch of thy light-dipping wing.

The thunder-cloud, over us bowed, in deeper gloom is seen, When quick relieved it glances to thy bosom's silvery sheen. The silent power that brought thee back with leading-strings of love

To haunts where first the summer sun fell on thee from above, Shall bind thee more to come aye to the music of our leaves, For here thy young, where thou hast sprung, shall glad thee in our eaves.

Thomas Kibble Harvey. {

Born 1804.
Died 1859.

BORN in Manchester, in 1804. He has spent a busy life in literary employment. He published the first volume of his poems in 1824; they are characterised by great beauty and vigour of expression.

THE CONVICT SHIP.

MORN on the waters! and, purple and bright,
Bursts on the billows the flushing of light;
O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on;

Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,

And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in the gale; The winds come around her, in murmur and song,

And the surges rejoice as they bear her along:

See! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds:
Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters-away, and away!

Bright as the visions of youth ere they part,
Passing away, like a dream of the heart!
Who-as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
Music around her, and sunshine on high-
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow,
Oh! there be hearts that are breaking below!
Night on the waves !—and the moon is on high,
Hung like a gem on the brow of the sky,
Treading its depths in the power of her might,
And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light!
Look to the waters!-asleep on their breast,
Seems not the ship like an island of rest?
Bright and alone on the shadowy main,

Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain!
Who-as she smiles in the silvery light,
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky,
A phantom of beauty—could deem with a sigh,
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,
And that souls that are smitten lie bursting within?
Who, as he watches her silently gliding,
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing,
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever,
Hearts which are parted and broken for ever?
Or deems that he watches, afloat on the waves,
The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave ?

'Tis thus with our life, while it passes along,
Like a vessel at sea, amidst sunshine and song!
Gaily we glide, in the gaze of the world,

With streamers afloat, and with canvas unfurled ;
All gladness and glory, to wandering eyes,

Yet chartered by sorrow, and freighted with sighs:
Fading and false is the aspect it wears,

As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears;

And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know, Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below,

Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore

Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er.

H. W. Longfellow.

Born 1807.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, the first of American poets, was born at Portland, in Maine, in 1807. He studied at the Bowdoin College, Brunswick, of which he afterwards became one of the professors. He held this appointment till 1835, when he removed to his present professorship in Harvard College, Cambridge, U.S. In his early life Longfellow was a contributor of poems to the American periodicals. In 1833 he published in verse a translation of "Coplas de Manrique;" in 1835, "Outre Mer," and afterwards "Hyperion," in prose, both of which became exceedingly popular in America and Britain. In 1839 he published his first volume of poems, "Voices of the Night," which at once announced that a master poet had risen. In quick succession followed "Poems on Slavery," and "The Spanish Student;" and in 1847 "Evangeline," one of the most exquisite of all his poems. In 1849 he published "The Seaside and Fireside;" in 1851, "The Golden Legend;" in 1855, "Hiawatha;" and in 1858, "Miles Standish," besides many shorter pieces which have become favourites in every household.

FROM "EVANGELINE.”

AND with these words of cheer, they arose and continued their journey.

Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape; Twinkling vapours arose; and sky and water and forest Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver, Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water. Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness. Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her. Then, from a neighbouring thicket, the mocking-bird, wildest

of singers,

Swinging aloft on a willow-spray that hung o'er the water, Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music, That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed

silent to listen.

Plaintive at first were the tones and sad! then, soaring to madness,

Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes. Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation; Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in

derision;

As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops

Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches.

With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion,

Slowly they entered the Têche, where it flows through the green Opelousas,

And through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland, Saw the column of smoke, that arose from a neighbouring dwelling,

Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of Time.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

THERE is a reaper whose name is Death,
And with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he;
"Have nought but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves!

It was for the Lord of Paradise

He bound them in his sheaves.

"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
The Reaper said, and smiled;
"Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where He was once a child.

"They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care;

And saints upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;
She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.

Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,

The Reaper came that day;

'Twas an angel visited the green earth,

And took the flowers away.

HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS

AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.

"TAKE thy banner! May it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave,
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the Sabbath of our vale;