Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope,
One vile, the other vain ;

One's scourge, the other's telescope,
I shall not see again.

Rather what lies before my feet
My notice shall engage,—
He who hath braved Youth's dizzy heat
Dreads not the frost of Age.

COMMUNION WITH NATURE.

The following has been forwarded to us, with many other passages apparently from the same pen, but without any intimation of the authorship. But it well deserves a place here for its intrinsic beauty. COMMUNION with thy Mother's eyes-With Nature? Surely she,

Among her thousand sympathies,
Hath one caress for thee!

Behold in all thy varied moods,
In passion and in grief,
She sets her answering attitudes
Of comfort and relief.

Old shaggy gnarls the lichen frets-
Steep banks of mountain lanes-
Moss-cushion'd arms of rivulets-

The hush of woodland rains-

Faint sighs of rushes in the fens--
Faint lispings of the tide-
Faint splashes down the gloomy glens
Of waters undescried-

Thin throbbing films of mellow light
Wide-woven in the west,-

And cool star-crystals, which the night
Breeds on her purple breast—

Long bars of creeping clouds, and sheets
Of wild electric flame-

And all the unregarded sweets

That melt in Nature's name,

Behold, they are not only fair;
Each in its fruitful arm

Hath truths and wisdoms everywhere,
To comfort, and to charm.

THE FLIGHT OF THE SWALLOW.

By FREDERICK TENNYSON, the brother of the Laureate, from a volume of poems lately published.

THE golden-throated merle, and mellow thrush
Chant to us yet; the woodlark will not fly
His ancient sylvan solitude, or hush

His dewy pipings for a softer sky;

But the swallow flies away

I would that I were he:

He follows the flown May
Across the sea.

The swallow hath a fickle heart at best,

He bears off the sweet days he brought us o'er,
And sounds retreat like an ungrateful guest
That shuns the flatter'd host he sued before;
Should kind Mirth be forgot

When his dark locks are gray,

And Love remember'd not?

Ah! stay, ah! stay!

Know ye of Gladness, that with jocund hearts
Can cast away old loves for love of new?

O friends, the music of a thousand arts

Charms not so sweetly as a voice that's true :
I sang ye songs of sorrow,

I sang ye songs of glee,

I cried, Await to-morrow;
Ye heard not me.

Know ye of Sorrow? can ye understand
Mortality, that hung unto the robe

Of Summer, as she flies from land to land?
Follow swift Youth around the rolling globe.

1

Joy's winged heart is light,

But blind are his bright eyes;

Grief seeth in the night

Of tears and sighs.

The feathers of Time's wings, ere yet they fall,
Ye pluck, and from his plumes ye trim your own;
Ye answer to the south wind's silver call,'

Ah! whither wend ye, leaving me undone ?
Ah! stay, dear friends, ah! stay,

And leave me not forsaken;
Care takes not the same way
That ye have taken.

In our lorn woods the morn and even song
Will fail, and things of sunshine cease to be;
Lo! shrilling Winter leadeth Death along,
I see the tyrant shake his lance at me.
Delight hath fled the earth,

The evil days are come;
So I will light my hearth,
And sing at home.

Ye seek the blue isles and the happy hills,
Ye rush into the heart of Summer skies,
Ye leave behind ye unremember'd ills,
Ye fly like happy souls to Paradise.
O! could ye, blissful things,

On my dark, utter day,

Lend me those selfsame wings
To flee away!

JUNE.

A beautiful composition by W. C. BRYANT, the poet of America.

I GAZED upon the glorious sky

And the green mountains round:

And thought that when I came to lie
Within the silent ground,

'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June,
When brooks send up a cheerful tune,
And groves a joyous sound,

The sexton's hand, my grave to make,
The rich, green mountain turf should break.

A cell within the frozen mould,

A coffin borne through sleet,
And icy clods above it roll'd,

While fierce the tempests beat--
Away! I will not think of these--
Blue be the sky and soft the breeze,
Earth green beneath the feet,
And be the damp mould gently press'd
Into my narrow place of rest.

There through the long, long summer hours, The golden light should lie,

And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
Stand in their beauty by.

The oriole should build and tell
His love-tale close beside my cell;
The idle butterfly

Should rest him there, and there be heard
The housewife bee and humming-bird.

And what if cheerful shouts at noon.
Come, from the village sent,
Or songs of maids, beneath the moon
With fairy laughter blent?
And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothed lovers walk in sight
Of my low monument?

I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight nor sound.

I know, I know I should not see
The season's glorious show,

Nor would its brightness shine for me,
Nor its wild music flow;
But if, around my place of sleep,
The friends I love should come to weep,
They might not haste to go.

Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom,
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

These to their soften'd hearts should bear
The thought of what has been,
And speak of one who cannot share
The gladness of the scene;
Whose part in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills,
Is-that his grave is green;

And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear again his living voice.

SONNET.

By CALDER CAMPBELL.

THE bright June woods with woodland sounds are ringing,
The cuckoo calls me, fleeing ere I come;

A thousand insects with life-joyous hum
Disport around; and through the orchard, singing
Its choral mass, the rich-toned thrush is winging
Its way to corny fields. No thing is dumb
To-day--the very grass breathes loud; each bloom
Speaks odour as it opes; and blithely flinging

Spice-scents abroad, pink-blossom'd hawthorn sheds Rare colours on the daisies at its foot!'Midst all this eloquence of Nature, mute

Man's melted spirit should not rest! Their heads
Flowers raise, to greet the sun; and Man, too, lifts
His thankful soul to God for all these summer gifts!