6

Mamma, wont she be hungry there,

'And want some bread to eat?

'And who will give her clothes to wear,

'And keep them clean and neat ?

6

Papa must go and carry some,

'I'll send her all I've got ;

And he must bring sweet sister home,

Mamma, now must he not ? '

'No, my dear child, that cannot be;

'But if you're good and true,

'You'll one day go to her, but she 'Can never come to you.

'Let little children come to me, 'Once the good Savior said;

And in his arms she'll always be,

'And God will give her bread.'

AN EXTRACT.

IN MEMORY OF LEONARD F. APTHORP, A FRIEND

AND CLASSMATE OF THE AUTHOR.

BY ISAAC M'LELLAN, JR.

SOON the pale Scholar learneth that the star
That lured him on, but leadeth to the grave;
And that the images of sombre stain
Are ever with life's tissue bright, inwrought.
And such a one, but yesternight I saw

Placed where Ambition's dream shall vex no more.
He saw the sparkles in life's golden cup,

And fain would deeply of its sweets have quaffed, But never lived to learn the poison of the draught.

Departed friend! thy brethren all have passed
From that still spot which sepulchres thy dust,
To mingle in earth's noisier scenes, to walk
In life's tumultuous, and thronging path.

Yet as the traveler at the close of day

Will pause to view the darkening landscape round, O'er which the Day's long pilgrimage had been, So we, in later years will love to view

In memory's dream, those scenes we walked with you.

I oft have sat at that still hour, when slow From her dim hall, the purple Twilight stole, And shut the shadowy landscape from the view, To mark the picture thy warm fancy drew Of coming life,-its triumph and its joys. Alas, fond dreamer, all thy colored hopes Are buried now beneath the Church-yard Stone, The crumbling mould is now thy narrow bed, And the rank church-yard weed waves mournful o'er thy head.

ON

STANZAS

RECOVERY FROM ILLNESS.

BY CLAUDE

L. HEMANS.

How sweet the rest kind nature brings,
As now she bids my sorrow cease,
And comes with healing on her wings
To give this aching brow release.

This kindly air so sweet and mild,

That greets me like affection's voice, She sends to soothe her suffering child,

And make my drooping heart rejoice.

Hope with unruffled plumes once more Broods buoyant on my tranquil breast, As when the raging storm is o'er

Some light bird floats on waves at rest.

Thanks, gentle friends, whose tender care
Has poured these blessings on my head,
And o'er the gloom of dark despair
The rays of warm affection shed.

FAIRY LAND.

BY WILLIAM B. WALTER.

SOMETIMES We wander to the Fairy Land,
Where the soul dances and her wings expand :—
Fair Land-its turf all brightened o'er with flowers,
And dewy shrubbery, and moonlight bowers,
Retreat of glittering Fancy's vagrant powers.
Fair Heaven!-where many colored clouds enfold,
Bright islets floating in the sea of gold!
Proud domes and palaces are shining there,
With ivory columns, gemmed with fire-stained spar!
There wanton Zephyrs dance on budding flowers,
And waft the fragrant leaves in snowy showers ;·
By sunny banks, the silver waters whirl
A wildering music o'er their sands of pearl;
And birds are singing from their star-lit bowers,
To lull the sleeping of the blue eyed Hours !—
Light things are flitting in this world of air;
Gay creatures born of thought, are dwelling there ;