May's in all the Italian books:
She has old and modern nooks,

Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves
In happy places they call shelves,
And will rise and dress your rooms
With a drapery thick with blooms.
Come, ye rains, then, if ye will;
May's at home, and with me still:
But come rather, thou, good weather,
And find us in the fields together.

DEATH.

Death is a road our dearest friends have gone:
Why, with such leaders, fear to say, "Lead on ?"
Its gate repels, lest it too soon be tried,
But turns in balm on the immortal side.
Mothers have passed it; fathers, children; men
Whose like we look not to behold again;
Women that smiled away their loving breath :-
Soft is the travelling on the road of Death!
But guilt has passed it?-men not fit to die?
Oh, hush-for He that made us all is by!
Human were all-all men, all born of mothers;
All our own selves in the worn-out shape of others;
Our used, and oh, be sure, not to be ill-used brothers.

JENNY KISSED ME.

Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in: Time, you thief, who love to get

Sweets into your list, put that in!

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad;

:

Say that health and wealth have missed me; Say I'm growing old, but add

Jenny kissed me!

James Nelson Barker.

AMERICAN.

Barker (1784-1858), better known as a dramatic writer than by his other productions, was a native of Philadelphia, and a son of General John Barker, an officer of the Revolution, and at one time mayor and sheriff of the city. James was a captain in the artillery during the war of 1812 with Great Britain, was for one year mayor of Philadelphia, and afterward collector of the port. In 1807 he produced a comedy, entitled "Tears and Smiles;" in 1817, "How to Try a Lover," never performed; and in 1823, a tragedy, "Superstition," one of

the principal parts in which is Goff, the regicide. Bar ker was also the author of some sprightly poems, one of which we subjoin.

LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD.

She was, indeed, a pretty little creature;
So meek, so modest! What a pity, madam,
That one so young and innocent should fall
A prey to the ravenous wolf!

-The wolf, indeed!
You've left the nursery to but little purpose
If you believe a wolf could ever speak,
Though in the time of Æsop or before.

-Was 't not a wolf, then? I have read the story A hundred times, and heard it told; nay, told it Myself to my younger sisters, when we've shrunk Together in the sheets, from very terror, And, with protecting arms, each round the other, E'en sobbed ourselves to sleep. But I remember I saw the story acted on the stage Last winter in the city, I and my school-mates, With our most kind preceptress, Mrs. Bazely: And so it was a robber, not a wolf, That met poor little Riding-hood i' the wood? -Nor wolf nor robber, child: this nursery tale Contains a hidden moral.

-Hidden? Nay,

I'm not so young but I can spell it out,
And thus it is: Children, when sent on errands,
Must never stop by the way to talk with wolves.
-Tut! wolves again! Wilt listen to me, child?
-Say on, dear grandma.

-Thus, then, dear my daughter:
In this young person, culling idle flowers,
You see the peril that attends the maiden
Who, in her walk through life, yields to temptation,
And quits the onward path to stray aside,
Allured by gaudy weeds.

To your young limbs and spirit.

-No, believe me: To keep the insects from disturbing you Was sweet employment, or to fan your cheek When the breeze lulled.

-You're a dear child!

-And then

To gaze on such a scene! the grassy bank,

So gently sloping to the rivulet,

All purple with my own dear violet,

And sprinkled over with spring flowers of each tint! There was that pale and humble little blossom, Looking so like its namesake, Innocence;

The fairy-formed, flesh-hued anemone,

With its fair sisters, called by country people

Fair maids o' the spring; the lowly cinque-foil, too,
And statelier marigold; the violet sorrel,
Blushing so rosy-red in bashfulness,

And her compauion of the season, dressed
In varied pink; the partridge evergreen,
Hanging its fragrant wax-work on each stem,
And studding the green sod with scarlet berries,-
Did you see all those flowers? I marked them

not.

-Oh, many more, whose names I have not learned! And then to see the light-blue butterfly Roaming about, like an enchanted thing, From flower to flower, and the bright honey-bee And there, too, was the fountain, overhung With bush and tree, draped by the graceful vine Where the white blossoms of the dog-wood met The crimson redbud, and the sweet birds sang Their madrigals; while the fresh springing waters, Just stirring the green fern that bathed within them, Leaped joyful o'er their fairy mound of rock, And fell in music, then passed prattling on Between the flowery banks that bent to kiss them. -I dreamed not of these sights or sounds.

-Then just

Beyond the brook there lay a narrow strip,
Like a rich ribbon, of enamelled meadow,
Girt by a pretty precipice, whose top

Was crowned, with rosebay. Half-way down there stood,

Sylph-like, the light, fantastic Columbine,

The book of nature too?-for it is that
I love and study. Do not take me back
To the cold, heartless city, with its forms
And dull routine, its artificial manners
And arbitrary rules, its cheerless pleasures
And mirthless masking. Yet a little longer,
Oh let me hold communion here with nature!
-Well, well, we'll see. But we neglect our lecture
Upon this picture-

-Poor Red Riding-hood!

We had forgotten her: yet mark, dear madam, How patiently the poor thing waits our leisure. And now the hidden moral.

-Thus it is: Mere children read such stories literally, But the more elderly and wise deduce A moral from the fiction. In a word, The wolf that you must guard against is-LOVE. -I thought love was an infant-"toujours enfant." --The world and love were young together, child, And innocent- Alas! time changes all things. -True, I remember, love is now a man, And, the song says, a very saucy one;"

But how a wolf?

-Tut! enough, enough!

As ready to leap down unto her lover,

Harlequin Bartsia, in his painted vest Of green and crimson.

Your madcap fancy runs too riot, girl.

We must shut up your books of botany, And give you graver studies.

-Say what, my love,

Deceived poor grandam first, and ate her up: What is the moral here? Have all our grandmas Been first devoured by love?

-Let us go in :

-Will you shut

The air grows cool. You are a forward chit.

John Wilson.

Edu

Professor John Wilson (1785-1854), son of an opulent manufacturer, was a native of Paisley, Scotland. cated at Oxford, he bought the beautiful estate of Elleray, on Lake Windermere, married, built a house, kept a yacht, wrote poetry, cultivated the society of Wordsworth, and enjoyed himself generally. Reverses came, however, and he was compelled to work in earnest. He was appointed Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, took the editorship of Blackwood's Magazine, and there made for himself quite a reputation, in his day, under the nom de plume of Christopher North. Scott speaks of him, in one of his letters, as "an eccentric genius." The poetical works of Wilson consist of "The Isle of Palms" (1812), "The City of the Plague" (1816), and several smaller pieces. In reference to his prose writings, Hallam characterized him as "a living writer of the most ardent and enthusiastic genius, whose eloquence is as the rush of mighty waters." In 1851 Wilson was granted a pension of £300 per annum. An interesting memoir of him by his daughter, Mrs. Gordon, appeared in 1862.

ADDRESS TO A WILD-DEER.

Magnificent creature! so stately and bright!
In the pride of thy spirit pursuing thy flight;
For what hath the child of the desert to dread,
Wafting up his own mountains that far beaming
head;

Or borne like a whirlwind down on the vale!-
Hail! king of the wild and the beautiful!—hail!
Hail! idol divine!-whom nature hath borne
O'er a hundred hill-tops since the mists of the

morn,

Whom the pilgrim lone wandering on mountain

and moor,

As the vision glides by him, may blameless adore;
For the joy of the happy, the strength of the free,
Are spread in a garment of glory o'er thee,
Up! up to yon cliff! like a king to his throne!
O'er the black silent forest piled lofty and lone-
A throne which the eagle is glad to resign
Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine.
There the bright heather springs up in love of
thy breast,

Lo! the clouds in the depths of the sky are at rest;

And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill! In the hush of the mountains, ye antlers, lie still!Though your branches now toss in the storm of delight

Like the arms of the pine on yon shelterless height,

One moment-thou bright apparition-delay! Then melt o'er the crags, like the sun from the day.

Aloft on the weather-gleam, scorning the earth,
The wild spirit hung in majestical mirth;
In dalliance with danger, he bounded in bliss
O'er the fathomless gloom of each moaning abyss;
O'er the grim rocks careering with prosperous

motion,

Like a ship by herself in full sail o'er the ocean! Then proudly he turned ere he sank to the dell, And shook from his forehead a haughty farewell, While his horus in a crescent of radiance shone, Like a flag burning bright when the vessel is gone.

The ship of the desert hath passed on the wind,
And left the dark ocean of mountains behind!
But my spirit will travel wherever she flee,
And behold her in pomp o'er the rim of the sea—
Her voyage pursue-till her anchor be cast
In some cliff-girdled haven of beauty at last.

What lonely magnificence stretches around!
Each sight how sublime! and how awful each
sound!

All hushed and serene as a region of dreams,
The mountains repose 'mid the roar of the streams,
Their glens of black umbrage by cataracts riven,
But calm their blue tops in the beauty of heaven.

HYMN.

FROM "LORD RONALD'S CHILD."

FIRST VOICE.

Oh beautiful the streams

That through our valleys run, Singing and dancing in the gleams Of summer's cloudless sun.

The sweetest of them all

From its fairy banks is gone! And the music of the water-fall Hath left the silent stone!

Up among the mountains

In soft and mossy cell, By the silent springs and fountains The happy wild-flowers dwell.

The queen-rose of the wilderness Hath withered in the wind,

And the shepherds see no loveliness

In the blossoms left behind.

Birds cheer our lonely groves

With many a beauteous wing— When happy in their harmless loves, How tenderly they sing!

O'er all the rest was heard

One wild and mournful strain,

But hushed is the voice of that hymning bird, She ne'er must sing again!

Bright through the yew-trees' gloom,

I saw a sleeping dove!

On the silence of her silvery plume, The sunlight lay in love.

The grove seemed all her own

Round the beauty of that breast-But the startled dove afar is flown! Forsaken is her nest!

In yonder forest wide

A flock of wild-deer lies,

Beauty breathes o'er each tender side And shades their peaceful eyes!

The hunter in the night

Hath singled out the doe,

In whose light the mountain-flock lay bright, Whose hue was like the snow!

A thousand stars shine forth,

With pure and dewy ray

Till by night the mountains of our north Seem gladdening in the day.

Oh empty all the heaven!

Though a thousand lights be there

For clouds o'er the evening-star are driven, And shorn her golden hair!

SECOND VOICE.

-What though the stream be dead, Its banks all still and dry!

It murmureth now o'er a lovelier bed In the air-groves of the sky.

What though our prayers from death
The queen-rose might not save!
With brighter bloom and balmier breath
She springeth from the grave.

What though our bird of light

Lie mute with plumage dim! In heaven I see her glancing bright— I hear her angel hymu.

What though the dark tree smile

No more with our dove's calm sleep! She folds her wing on a sunny isle

In heaven's untroubled deep.

True that our beauteous doe

Hath left her still retreatBut purer now in heavenly snow She lies at Jesus' feet.

Oh star! untimely set!

Why should we weep for thee! Thy bright and dewy coronet Is rising o'er the sea!

THE EVENING CLOUD.

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun;
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
Long had I watched the glory moving on,
O'er the still radiance of the lake below.
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow,-
Even 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.

THE SHIPWRECK.

FROM "THE ISLE OF PALMS."

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.

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 mellowed day.

And, lo! upon the murmuring waves

A glorious shape appearing!

A broad-winged vessel, through the shower

Of glimmering lustre steering!

As if the beauteous ship enjoyed

The beauty of the sea,

She lifteth up her stately head,
And saileth joyfully.

A lovely path before her lies,

A lovely path behind;

She sails amid the loveliness

Like a thing with heart and mind.

Fit pilgrim through a scene so fair,
Slowly she beareth on;

A glorious phantom of the deep,

Risen up to meet the moon.

The moon bids her tenderest radiance fall

On her wavy streamer and snow-white wings,

And the quiet voice of the rocking sea,

To cheer the gliding vision, sings.

Oh, ne'er did sky and water blend
In such a holy sleep,

Or bathe in brighter quietude
A roamer of the deep.

But, list! a low and moaning sound
At distance heard, like a spirit's song!
And now it reigns above, around,

As if it called the ship along.
The moon is sunk, and a clouded gray
Declares that her course is run,
And, like a god who brings the day,
Up mounts the glorious sun.

Soon as his light has warmed the seas,
From the parting cloud fresh blows the breeze!
And that is the spirit whose well-known song
Makes the vessel to sail in joy along.

No fears hath she! her giant form
O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm,
Majestically calm would go

'Mid the deep darkness white as snow!
But gently now the small waves glide
Like playful lambs o'er a mountain side.
So stately her bearing, so proud her array,
The main she will traverse forever and aye.
Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast!
Hush, hush, thou vain dreamer! this hour is her
last.

Five hundred souls in one instant of dread Are hurried o'er the deck;

And fast the miserable ship

Becomes a lifeless wreck.

Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock,

Her planks are torn asunder,

And down come her masts with a reeling shock,

And a hideous crash like thunder.

Her sails are draggled in the brine,

That gladdened late the skies,

And her pennant that kissed the fair moonshine
Down many a fathom lies.

Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow-hues
Gleamed softly from below,

And flung a warm and sunny flush

O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow.

To the coral rocks are hurrying down,
To sleep amid colors as bright as their own.

Oh, many a dream was in the ship

An hour before her death;

And sights of home with sighs disturbed
The sleeper's long-drawn breath.
Instead of the murmur of the sea,
The sailor heard the humming tree,
Alive through all its leaves,
The hum of the spreading sycamore
That grows before his cottage door,

And the swallow's song in the eaves.
His arms enclosed a blooming boy,
Who listened with tears of sorrow and joy
To the dangers his father had passed;
And his wife-by turns she wept and smiled,
As she looked on the father of her child
Returned to her heart at last.

He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll,
And the rush of waters is in his soul.
Astounded the reeling deck he paces,
'Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces;—
The whole ship's crew are there.
Wailings around and overhead,
Brave spirits stupefied or dead,

And madness and despair.

Now is the ocean's bosom bare,
Unbroken as the floating air;
The ship hath melted quite away,
Like a struggling dream at break of day.
No image meets my wandering eye,

But the new-risen sun and the sunny sky.
Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapor dull
Bedims the waves so beautiful;

While a low and melancholy moan
Mourns for the glory that hath flown.