STANZAS.

Graceful verses by the Hon. E. SPENCER. Too late I've stay'd-forgive the crime-Unheeded flew the hours;

How noiseless falls the foot of Time
That only treads on flowers.

What eye with clear account remarks
The ebbing of the glass,

When all its sands are diamond sparks
Which dazzle as they pass?

Ah, who to sober measurement
Time's happy swiftness brings,
When birds of Paradise have lent
Their plumage for his wings?

SONG.

By WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Dost thou idly ask to hear
At what gentle seasons
Nymphs relent, when lovers near
Press the tenderest reasons?
Ah, they give their faith too oft
To the careless wooer;

Maidens' hearts are always soft:

Would that men's were truer !

Woo the fair one, when around
Early birds are singing;
When, o'er all the fragrant ground,
Early herbs are springing:

When the brookside, bank, and grove,

All with blossoms laden,

Shine with beauty, breathe of love,-
Woo the timid maiden.

Woo her when with rosy blush,
Summer eve is sinking;

When, on rills that softly gush,
Stars are softly winking;

When through boughs that knit the bower

Moonlight gleams are stealing;
Woo her, till the gentle hour

Wake a gentler feeling.

Woo her, when autumnal dyes
Tinge the woody mountain;
When the dropping foliage lies
In the weedy fountain;
Let the scene, that tells how fast
Youth is passing over,

Warn her, ere her bloom is past,
To secure her lover.

Woo her, when the north winds call
At the lattice nightly;
When, within the cheerful hall,
Blaze the faggots brightly;
While the wintry tempest round
Sweeps the landscape hoary,
Sweeter in her ear shall sound
Love's delightful story.

LOVE AND LIFE.

By THOMAS WILMOT, who flourished in the 17th century. It has much of the spirit and grace of Tom Moore.

ALL my past life is mine no more,
The flying hours are gone,

Like transitory dreams given o'er,
Whose images are kept in store
By memory alone.

The time, that is to come, is not,
How can it then be mine?
The present moment's all my lot,
And that, as fast as it is got,
Phillis, is only thine.

Then talk not of inconstancy,
False hearts, and broken vows;

If I by miracle can be

This live-long minute true to thee
'Tis all that heaven allows.

1660.

"O MARY, GO AND CALL THE CATTLE HOME!"

A curious poem from Alton Locke, by the Rev. CHARLES KINGSLEY -full of poetry and genius.

O MARY, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

Across the sands o' Dee.

The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,
And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see;

The blinding mist came down and hid the land-
And never home came she.

Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,

A tress o' golden hair,

O' drowned maiden's hair,

Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shine so fair,
Among the stakes in Dee.

They row'd her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea;

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,
Across the sands o' Dee.

TEARS.

This beautiful sonnet is by Mrs. E. B. BROWNING.

THANK God, bless God, all ye who suffer not
More grief than ye can weep for. That is well—
That is light grieving! lighter, none befel,
Since Adam forfeited the primal lot.

Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps in its cot-
The mother singing: at her marriage bell
The bride weeps: and before the oracle
Of high-faned hills the poet hath forgot

That moisture on his cheeks. Commend the grace.
Mourners, who weep! albeit, as some have done,
Ye grope brow-blinded, in a desert place,

And touch but tombs. Look up! Those tears will run Soon in long rivers down the lifted face

And leave the vision clear for stars and sun.

THE VOICE OF THE GRASS.

This original production appeared in America-anonymously—though ascribed to MARY HOWITT.

HERE I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

By the dusty road-side,

On the sunny hill-side,
Close by the noisy brook,
In every shady nook,

I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere;
All around the open door,
Where sit the aged poor,

Here, where the children play,
In the bright and merry May,

I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
In the noisy city street,
My pleasant face you'll meet
Cheering the sick at heart
Toiling his busy part,

Silently creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
You cannot see me coming,

Nor hear my low, sweet humming;
For in the starry night,

And the glad morning light,

I come quietly creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
More welcome than the flowers,

In summer's pleasant hours;
The gentle cow is glad,

And the merry bird not sad,

To see me creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
When you're number'd with the dead,
In your still and narrow bed,

In the happy spring I'll come,
And deck your silent home,
Creeping silently, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
My humble song of praise

Most gratefully I raise

To Him, at whose command
I beautify the land,
Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

THE LAST SWALLOW.

By WILLIAM HOWITT.

AWAY-away-why dost thou linger here,
When all thy fellows o'er the sea have pass'd?
Wert thou the earliest comer of the year,
Loving our land, and so dost stay the last?
Hear'st thou no warning in the autumnal blast?
And is the sound of growing streams unheard?
Dost thou not see the woods are fading fast,

Whilst the dull leaves with wailful winds are stirr'd ?-
Haste,--haste to other climes, thou solitary bird!

Thy coming was in lovelier skies-thy wing,
Long wearied, rested in delightful bowers;
Thou camest when the living breath of spring
Had fill'd the world with gladness and with flowers!
Skyward the carolling lark no longer towers-
Alone we hear the robin's pensive lay;

And from the sky of beauty darkness lowers :
Thy coming was with hope, but thou dost stay

'Midst melancholy thoughts, that dwell upon decay.