Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit;
As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial loved return!

For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours and Elves*
Who slept in buds the day,

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,
And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and, lovelier still,
The pensive Pleasures sweet
Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,
Or find some ruin, 'midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod

By thy religious gleams.

Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That, from the mountain's side
Views wilds and swelling flood.

And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires;
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
Or Winter, bellowing through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes;

So long, sure found beneath thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
Thy gentlest influence own,

And hymn thy favourite name!

*Fairies.

I

AT the time of my possessing my wonderful Robin, we had left our country home, my brothers were most of them abroad in the world, and I was living with my parents in the pleasant city of Rwas a school-girl, between fifteen and sixteen years of age. That spring I commenced the study of French; and as I was never a remarkably bright scholar, I was obliged to apply myself with great diligence to my books. I used to take my grammar and phrase-book to my chamber at night, and study as long as I could possibly keep my eyes open. In consequence of this, as you may suppose, I was very sleepy in the morning, and it usually took a prodigious noise and something of a shaking to waken me. But one summer morning I was roused early, not by the breakfast-bell, nor by calling or shaking, but by a glad gush of sweetest singing. I opened my eyes, and right on the foot-board of my bed was perched a pretty red-breasted robin, pouring out all his little soul in a merry morning song. I stole out of bed softly, and shut down the window through which he had come; then, as soon as I was dressed, caught him, carried him down stairs, and put him into a cage which had hung empty ever since the cat made away with my last canary.

I soon found that I had a rare treasure in my Robin, who was very tame, and had evidently been carefully trained; for before the afternoon was over he surprised and delighted us all by singing the air of "Buy a broom" quite through, touching on every note with great precision. We saw that it was a valuable bird, who had probably escaped; and for some days we made inquiries for its owner, but without success.

At night I always took Robin's cage into my chamber, and he was sure to waken me early with his loud but delicious singing. So passed on a month, in which I had great happiness in my interesting pet. But one Saturday forenoon I let him out, that I might clean his cage. I had not observed that there was a window open, but the bird soon made himself acquainted with the fact, and with a glad exulting trill he darted out into the sunshine. Hastily catching my bonnet, I ran after him. At first he stayed about the trees in front of the house, provokingly hopping from branch to branch out of my reach, holding his head on one side, and eyeing me with sly mischievous glances. At last he spread his wings and flew down the street. I followed as fast as I could, keeping my eye upon him all the time. It was curious that he did not fly across squares or over the houses, but kept along above the streets, slowly, and with a backward glance once in a while. At length he turned down a narrow court, and flew into the open window of a small frame-house. Here I followed him, knocking timidly at the door, which was opened by a boy about nine years old. I found myself in a small parlour, very plainly but neatly furnished. In an arm-chair by the window sat a middle-aged woman, who I saw at once was blind. A tall, dark-eyed, rather handsome girl was sitting near her, sewing. But I did not look at either of these more than a moment, for on the other side of the room was an object to charm and yet sadden my eyes. This was a slight girl, about my own age, reclining on a couch, looking very ill and pale, but with a small red spot on each cheek, which told me that she was almost gone with consumption. She was very beautiful, though so thin and weary-looking. She had large, dark, tender eyes, and her lips were still as sweet as rose-buds. I think I never saw such magnificent hair as hers; it flowed all over her pillow, and hung down nearly to the floor in bright glossy ringlets.

At that moment she was holding the truant Robin in her white, slender hands, crying and laughing over him, calling him her "dear lost pet," her "naughty runaway," and a hundred other loving and scolding names. I, of course, felt rather awkward, but I explained matters to Robin's fair mistress as well as I could. She looked pleased, and thanked me warmly for the good care I had taken of the bird. Then she made me sit down by her side, and asked my name, and told me hers, which was Ellen Harper, and introduced me to her mother, sister, and brother, all in the sweetest manner possible. We got quite well acquainted, and talked like old friends till Ellen's cough interrupted her. Then, as I rose to go, she made me promise to come again very soon, and raised.herself as though she would kiss me before

I went. Just as I bent down to press my lips to hers, Robin, who, of his own accord, had taken possession of his old cage, which had been left open for him, burst out into a sweet merry warble, full of the most astonishing trills and shakes. Then I felt that it was well that we two should love one another.

After that I went almost daily to see Ellen Harper. I carried her books, I read to her, talked to her, and listened to her low gentle voice, and looked down deep into her clear hazel eyes till I grew to love the sweet, patient girl more than I can tell. I think that she was a most remarkable person. Her parents were quite poor, and she had enjoyed few advantages; but she was far beyond me in scholarship and reading. And then she was a true Christian, with a calm hope and a cheerful resignation; she seemed, indeed, to have given her heart to God.

Ellen knew that she was dying; she knew that, young and fair and beloved as she was, she had not long to stay in this bright, beautiful world. But she did not fear or complain, for she knew also that a kind Father called her away, to a world far brighter and many times more beautiful than ours. It was touching to see her trying to comfort her sister Lucy, whose strength would sometimes give way as she saw that slight form growing weaker every day; or her young brother Willie, when he would leave his book or his play, and come and lay his face against her bosom and cry; or her father, when he would come home from his work at night, and sit down beside his darling child, and hold her thin, fair fingers in his great brown hand, and say no word, only sigh as though his poor heart was breaking; or her mother, who was blind, and could not see the change in her “own little Nelly," as she called her, and so had to be told again and again that she was failing fast. For all these dear ones Ellen had words of consolation, and they always felt stronger after she had talked with them.

On some of those mornings when I went over to dress her beautiful hair, which I dearly loved to do, she talked to me as an angel might talk, I thought, and told me many sweet and holy things, which I shall remember all the days of my life.

As long as she stayed with us, Ellen had great pleasure in her pet Robin. She said that to her ear he always seemed to be singing hymns, which was a great joy to her after she became too weak to sing them herself.

Dear Ellen died at night. She had been very restless in the evening, and at last said that, if she could lie in her mother's arms, as she used to lie when she was a little child, she thought that she could sleep.

K