When the young sunbeams glance among the trees When on the ear comes the soft song of beesWhen every branch has its own favourite bird, And songs of summer, from each thicket heard!— Where the owl flitteth, Where the rose sitteth, Seems sleeping there; While nature's prayer In purity, Till all is glory And joy to me! High thoughts! They are my own When I am resting on a mountain's bosom, And see below me strown The huts and homes where humble virtues blossom: When I can trace each streamlet through the meadow When I can follow every fitful shadow- And see the waves along the forest borne: Are blooming together, THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN. 149 And far doth come The Sabbath bell O'er wood and fell; Of Nature's heart: Heaven is before me God thou art! High thoughts! They visit us In moments when the soul is dim and darkened; They come to bless After the vanities to which we hearkened: When weariness hath come upon the spirit(Those hours of darkness which we all inherit)— Bursts there not through a glint of warm sun. shine, A winged thought, which bids us not repine? In joy and gladness, In mirth and sadness, Come signs and tokens: Upon its wings Those bright communings The soul doth keep Those thoughts of IIeaven So pure and deep !" R. NICOLL. LINES. THEY speak of thee as one whose mind Nor mark how cold my brow the while. And thou with them so blest canst be? That I have seen thy starting tear, Have heard thee secret woes unfold, And mourn, when others could not hear? 'Tis better thus-be wild-be gay; How should I feel to know that they LOUISA COSTELLO. BOOKS. BOOKS! sweet associates of the silent hour, Joy in their joys, and sorrow as they mourn; Gaze on their Christian animating strife, And shed fond tears o'er their untimely urn; Or, with heroic beings tread the soil Of a freed country, by themselves made free, And taste the recompence of virtuous toil, The exultation of humanity. F. HORNBLOWER. A WORD IN SEASON. THEY have a superstition in the East, Of rolling incense, and of lighted taper: Accordingly they make a mighty fuss With every wretched tract and fierce oration, And hoard the leaves; for they are not like us, A highly civilized and thinking nation; And always stooping in the miry ways To look for matter of this earthly leaven, They seldom, in their dust-exploring days, Have any leisure to look up to Heaven. So I have known a country on the earth, ters; And yet, where they who should have oped the door Of charity and light, for all men's finding, Squabbled for words upon the altar-floor, And rent the Book, in struggles for the binding. The gentlest man among these pious Turks Bowstrings the Virtues in the market-places. |