now, when I saw him last, before they put him in his cold grave! What'll Mary do when I'm gone? God be with her! and him that's dead, him that's a corpse before me, and I not by, with my blessing for him!" Most of the villagers had left the scene of sorrow, and, as I saw that those who remained were all the young man's relatives and friends, I departed also, with an aching heart, to reflect on the melancholy close of the evening of gaiety and joy; and, once more, to bear testimony to the truth of the words of the poet-that pleasure and happiness are, too often, but

"The torrent's smoothness, ere it dash below!"

L. A. H.

THE GREEN OF THE DAY.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE LABOURS OF IDLENESS,

" &c.

'Tis a green spot of time in the even-tide, when,

The sleepy-head flowers are winking,

And the cuckoo's sweet hiccuping down in the glen,
Tells of the dew she's been drinking.

When the blackbird is filling the reed in his throat,
The wood-nun her vespers beginning;

And the hedge-piping wren with her minikin note,
Sings to the housewife a-spinning.

When the silver-wing'd bee from his travels return'd,
What tale he shall tell, hummeth over;

What sights he has seen and what facts he has learn'd
While abroad he has been, and a rover.

Then to lean o'er the stile, and look down o'er the meads,
Where the woods in wet sun-beams are smoking,
And the quarrelsome crows are all making their beds,
And cawing, and craving, and croaking.

Now they settle, and swing in their hammocks so high, Safe as halcyons sleep, and as quiet;

Till a friend steals a straw,-when up! up! and the sky Is all wings, and the wood is all riot.

Down again, and to rest. But the petulant stream
Murmurs on, murmurs on its wild journey;

And the gnats sparkling swift thro' the rich yellow beam,
Buzz as bright by your cheek as they'd burn ye.

Gentle Eve comes apace-gentle eve with a veil
Dew-besteep'd, that falls balm in a shower,
If its grey fleecy folds are but puffed by the gale
That would scarce move the wing of a flower.

O'tis sweet to the heart, and 'tis sweet to the ear,
At this hour of tired Nature's reposing,
The hush that runs o'er the wide woodland to hear
As her dim dusky eyelids are closing.

No roar from the valley, no moan from the grove,
No noise that the noon-season numbers;

But a low stilly sound, such as Psyche's own Love
Might fan from his wings o'er her slumbers.

ON A DOVE,

Flying into a village church, and alighting on the pulpit, just as the Clergyman was announcing a Sermon to be preached for the benefit of Missions.

WELCOME, Soft messenger of peace!
Let Faith and Hope the omen hail;
The moral deluge soon shall cease,
And Truth's eternal Rock prevail.

'Twas thine with new-born hopes to fill
The sad survivors of a world;

And Fancy 'mid thy plumage still

Sees the bright arch of heaven unfurled.

Shrouded in thee from mortal sight,
The Spirit hallowed Jordan's tide,
When with the sinner's healing rite,

The sinless Son of God complied.

'Twas on thy rushing pinions sped,
The same all-conqu'ring Spirit came,
When wond'ring thousands saw with dread
The mystic tongues of living flame.

Who then shall blame, if Fancy seize
A presage hallowed by the sky,
When, wafted on the joyous breeze,
The Spirit's type thus meets her eye?

She marks it, with confiding wing,
Settle on Truth's immortal shrine;
While hosts unseen of angels sing-
"The nations, Lord! shall yet be thine."

S.