Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound!

We, in thought, will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,

Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May !

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy

Which having been must ever be,
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering,

In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forbode not any severing of our loves!

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

I only have relinquish'd one delight

To live beneath your more habitual sway;

I love the brooks which down their channels fret Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born day

Is lovely yet;

The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;

Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

[SAMUEL ROGERS, the son of a banker, was born at Newington Green, near London, in the year 1762, and, after a careful education, was

age.

introduced into the banking establishment. His first desire to become a poet arose from reading Beattie's "Minstrel" when he was nine years of In 1792 he produced his most celebrated work, "The Pleasures of Memory," and in 1812, "Jacqueline," a tale. In 1825 appeared "Human Life," and in 1822, “Italy," a descriptive poem in blank verse. Through his affluent circumstances he was enabled to cultivate his favourite tastes, and to adorn his mansion in St. James's Place with the finest and rarest pictures, books, and gems. He died in the year 1856, in the ninety-fourth year of his age, and was buried in Hornsey Churchyard.]

MINE be a cot beside the hill,

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;

A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church, among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper-spire to heaven.

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.

SLEEP on, and dream of Heaven awhile----
Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes,

Thy rosy lips still wear a smile

And move, and breathe delicious sighs!

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks
And mantle o'er her neck of snow:
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
What most I wish-and fear to know!

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps! Her fair hands folded on her breast: -And now, how like a saint she sleeps! A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above control

Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:
And may the secret of thy soul
Remain within its sanctuary!

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

BY THOMAS MOORE.—1780-1852.

[THOMAS MOORE was born in Dublin on the 28th of May, 1780. In 1799 he proceeded to London to study law, and to publish, by subscription, a translation of "Anacreon.” In 1803 he obtained an official situation at Bermuda, the duties of which might be performed by proxy; but his deputy proved unfaithful, and the poet incurred heavy pecuniary losses. In 1813 Moore commenced his patriotic task of writing lyrics for the ancient music of his native country. His "Irish Melodies" display great fervour with melody of diction. In 1817 he produced an Eastern romance called “Lalla Rookh," which may be considered his most elaborate poem. His latest imaginative work was the " Epicurean."

HOSE evening bells! those evening bells!

THOS

How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time,
When last I heard their soothing chime.

Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 'twill be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells;
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.

FT in the stilly night

OFT

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Fond Memory brings the light

Of other days around me:

The smiles, the tears

Of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken ;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimm'd and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!