"What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?” "Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under." “What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on, And singing all wrong that old song of The Coolun?'" There's a form at the casement-the form of her true loveAnd he whispers, with face bent, "I'm waiting for you, love; Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly,

We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining brightly." Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers,
Steals up from her seat-longs to go, and yet lingers;
A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother,
Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other.
Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round;

Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound;

Noiseless and light to the lattice above her

The maid steps-then leaps to the arms of her lover.
Slower and slower-and slower the wheel swings;

Lower-and lower-and lower the reel rings;

Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving, Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving.

-JOHN FRANCIS WALLER.

CATAWBA WINE.

THIS Song of mine

Is a song of the Vine,

To be sung by the glowing embers

Of wayside inns,

When the rain begins

To darken the drear Novembers.

Drugged is their juice

For foreign use,

When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic,
To rack cur brains

With the fever pains,

That have driven the Old World frantic.

To the sewers and sinks
With all such drinks,

And after them tumble the mixer;

For a poison malign

Is such Borgia wine,

Or at best but a Devil's Elixir.

While pure as a spring

Is the wine I sing,

And to praise it, one needs but name it;
For Catawba wine

Has need of no sign,

No tavern-bush to proclaim it.

And this Song of the Vine,

This greeting of mine,

The winds and the birds shall deliver
To the Queen of the West,

In her garlands dressed,

On the banks of the Beautiful River.

-LONGFELLOW.

THE KING OF YVETOT.

THERE reigned a king in Yvetot,
But little known in story,

Who, stranger all to grief and woe,

Slept soundly without glory.

His night-cap tied by Jenny's care

(The only crown this king would wear,)

He'd snooze!

Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho!

The merry monarch of Yvetot.

Though, like the wanderer,
The sun gone down,

Darkness be over me,

My rest a stone;
Yet in my dreams I'd be
Nearer, my God, to Thee,-
Nearer to Thee!

There let the way appear,
Steps unto heaven;
All that Thou sendest me,

In mercy given;

Angels to beckon me

Nearer, my God, to Thee,÷
Nearer to Thee!

Then with my waking thoughts,

Bright with Thy praise,

Out of my stony griefs,

Bethel I'll raise;

So by my woes to be
Nearer, my God, to Thee,-
Nearer to Thee!

Or if on joyful wing,

Cleaving the sky,

Sun, moon, and stars forgot,
Upward I fly;

Still all my song shall be,

Nearer, my God, to Thee,

Nearer to Thee.

-SARAH F. ADAMS.

A HYMN.

WHEN all thy mercies, O my God,
My rising soul surveys,

Transported with the view, I'm lost
In wonder, love, and praise.