Let them joy in their brilliant sun-lit skies, Tu-whoo! Oh, a weary thing to an owlet's eyes When the sweet dew sleeps in the midnight cool, And the toad leaps up on her throne-shaped stool, Tu-whoo! While the bull-frog croaks o'er his stagnant pool, As the last lone ray from the hamlet fades The night-bird sings in the cloister shades, And fairies trip o'er the broad green glades, Tu-whoo! Tu-whoo!-All the livelong night While the starry ones from their jewelled height Tu-whoo! They may bask who will in the noonday light, -MRS HEWITT. LIGHT. FROM the quickened womb of the primal gloom Till I wove him a vest for his Ethiop breast And when the broad tent of the firmament I pencilled the hue of its matchless blue, I painted the flowers of the Eden bowers, And mine were the dyes in the sinless eyes And when the fiend's art on her trustful heart In the silvery sphere of the first-born tear When the waves that burst o'er a world accursed And the ark's lone few, the tried and true, With the wondrous gleams of my braided beams As I wrote on the roll of the storm's dark scroll Like a pall at rest on a pulseless breast, Where shepherd swains on the Bethlehem plains When I flashed on their sight the heralds bright As they chanted the morn of a Saviour born, Equal favour I show to the lofty and low, On the just and unjust I descend; E'en the blind, whose vain spheres roll in darkness and tears, Nay, the flower of the waste by my love is embraced, appear, At the chrysalis bier of the worm Ĭ The desolate Morn, like a mourner forlorn, Till I bid the bright Hours chase the Night from her bowers, And lead the young Day to her arms; And when the gay rover seeks Eve for his lover, I And sinks to her balmy repose, wrap their soft rest, by the zephyr-famed west, In curtains of amber and rose. From my sentinel steep, by the night-brooded deep, When the cynosure star of the mariner Is blotted from the sky; And guided by me through the merciless sea, His compassless bark, lone, weltering, dark, I waken the flowers in their dew-spangled bowers, And mountain and plain glow with beauty again, Oh, if such the glad worth of my presence to earth, What glories must rest on the home of the blest, -W. P. PALMER. INDIAN NAMES. "How can the red men be forgotten, while so many of our states and territories, rivers and lakes, are designated by their names ?" -ANON. Wachusett hides their lingering voice Your mountains build their monument, TO MY BROTHER. WE are but two-the others sleep Heart leaps to heart-the sacred flood That good old man-his honest blood We in one mother's arms were locked- In the same cradle we were rocked, Let manhood keep alive the flame We are but one-be that the bond Shoulder to shoulder let us stand, -CHARLES SPRAGUE. "WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?" "WHAT is that, mother?" The lark, my child! The moon has but just looked out and smiled, i And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere, Ever, my child, be thy morning lays Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise. "What is that, mother?" The dove, my son! And that low sweet voice, like a widow's moan, Is flowing out from her gentle breast, In friendship as faithful, as constant in love! The eagle, boy! Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying, The swan, my love! He is floating down by himself to die; Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, Live so, my love, that when death shall come, -G. W. DOANE. SATURDAY AFTERNOON. I LOVE to look on a scene like this, And persuade myself that I am not old, And my locks are not yet gray; For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, And the light of a pleasant eye. I have walked the world for fourscore years, That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, It is very true-it is very true— But my heart will leap at a scene like this, Play on play on! I am with you there, I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, |