To me earth's heaven,-the azure main,—
Soft music,-and the breath of flowers;
My heart shall gain from thee its hues;
And Memory give, though Truth refuse,
The bliss that once was ours!

Literary Souvenir.

GRIEF.

BY D. L. RICHARDSON, ESQ.

A sudden gloom came o'er me,
A gathering throng of fears
Shrouded the path before me,
And through the mist of tears
I saw the coming years.

'Tis strange how transient sorrow
The mental sight deludes;

To day the world is dark-to morrow
No saddening shade intrudes

To tinge our brighter moods.

I heard the low winds sighing
Above the cheerless earth,
And deemed the hope of dying
Was all that life was worth,
And scoffed at human mirth.

From that wild dream awaking,
And through the clouds of care
The spirit's sun-shine breaking,
I marvelled how despair
Could haunt a world so fair!

ON A HEADLAND IN THE BAY OF PANAMA.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

We ran up a small creek, near which was a headland, famous for a sanguinary battle, at some very remote period, far beyond the memory of man. We were told of fragments of huge bones that had once whitened all the ground there. We ourselves saw none, however; but turned up various fossils, which, for aught we knew to the contrary, might have belonged to some antediluvian giant or hero, who was cotemporary with the mammoth and leviathan.

VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY, BY JUAN PABLOS GOMEZ.

VAGUE mystery hangs on all these desert places!

The fear which hath no name, hath wrought a spell! Strength, courage, wrath-have been, and left no traces! They came, and fled;-but whither?-who can tell!

We know but that they were,- that once (in days
When ocean was a bar 'twixt man and man),
Stout spirits wandered o'er these capes and bays,
And perished where these river-waters ran.

Methinks they should have built some mighty tomb,

Whose granite might endure the century's rain, White winter, and the sharp night winds, that boom Like spirits in their purgatorial pain.

They left, 't is said, their proud unburied bones
To whiten on this unacknowledged shore :
Yet nought beside the rocks and worn sea stones
Now answer to the great Pacific's roar !

A mountain stands where Agamemnon died:
And Cheops hath derived eternal fame,
Because he made his tomb a place of pride;

And thus the dead Metella earned a name.

But these, they vanished as the lightnings die (Their mischiefs over) in the surging deep;

And no one knoweth underneath the sky,

What heroes perished here, nor where they sleep! Literary Souvenir.

X

THE SQUIRE'S PEW.

BY JANE TAYLOR.

A slanting ray of evening light
Shoots through the yellow pane;
It makes the faded crimson bright,
And gilds the fringe again:
The window's Gothic frame-work falls
In oblique shadows on the walls.

And since those trappings first were new,

How many a cloudless day,

To rob the velvet of its hue,

Has come and passed away!
How many a setting sun hath made

That curious lattice-work of shade!

Crumbled beneath the hillock green,
The cunning hand must be,
That carved this fretted door, I ween,
Acorn, and fleur-de-lis;

And now the worm hath done her part
In mimicking the chisel's art.

In days of yore (as now we call),
When the first James was king,
The courtly knight from yonder hall
His train did hither bring;

All seated round in order due,

With 'broidered suit and buckled shoe.

On damask cushions decked with fringe,
All reverently they knelt;
Prayer-books, with brazen hasp and hinge,
In ancient English spelt,

Each holding in a lily hand,

Responsive to the priest's command.

Now, streaming down the vaulted aisle,
The sunbeam long and lone,
Illumes the characters awhile,

Of their inscription-stone ;

And there, in marble hard and cold,
The knight with all his train behold:

Outstretched together are expressed
He and my lady fair;

With hands uplifted on the breast,
In attitude of prayer;
Long-visaged, clad in amour, he,—
With ruffled arm and bodice, she.

Set forth in order, as they died,
Their numerous offspring bend,
Devoutly kneeling side by side,
As if they did intend

For past omissions to atone,
By saying endless prayers in stone.

Those mellow days are past and dim;

But generations new,

In regular descent from him,

Have filled the stately pew;

And in the same succession go

To occupy the vault below.

And now the polished, modern squire,

And his gay train appear;

Who duly to the Hall retire,

A season every year:

And fill the seats with belle and beau,

As 't was so many years ago.

Perchance, all thoughtless as they tread

The hollow-sounding floor

Of that dark house of kindred dead,
Which shall, as heretofore,

In turn receive to silent rest,
Another, and another guest;

The feathered hearse and sable train,
In all their wonted state,
Shall wind along the village lane,
And stand before the gate;
Brought many a distant country through,

To join the final rendezvous.

And when the race is swept away,
All to their dusty beds,

Still shall the mellow evening ray
Shine gaily o'er their heads:
While other faces, fresh and new,
Shall fill the squire's respected pew.

BALLACHULISH.

BY THE REV. CHARLES HOYLE.

SWEET paradise beneath the mountains rude,
That sentinel Glen-Coe's terrific vale,

Smile ever thus in peace and solitude;
Smooth be thy lake, and gentle be thy gale!
Methinks good angels are abroad, and sing
At morn or noon, at eve or moonlight pale,
High hallelujahs to the' Omnific King
Who bade thee in thine awful beauty show
What primal Eden was, ere yet the sting
Of sin and death had marred the bliss below.
O, were the season ripe to quit the roar
Of life, and all its turbulence of woe,

Here would I wait my voyage to that shore

Where sorrow, pain, and guilt shall be no more.