Close at my garden's foot by Cestria's walls
Rolls his full tide, I turn to other plains
Where, throned in rural quiet, Nature reigns;
And as I rove her happy scenes among,

Not one light sigh my gladden'd spirit deigns (Though some were valued) to the city-throng: Here purer sweeps the breeze, here flows a softer

song.

Mark'd from my window at the call of spring,
The bursting orchard spreads it's gaudiest bloom;
The lambkin bleats, the rook is on the wing,

And every twittering hedge-row breathes perfume: And from each nectar'd flower ascends the hum, Where clustering thick the busy hive is met

In yellow lustre glows the golden broom,

'Mid the dark grass the primrose-star is set, And on it's dewy bank sleeps the sweet violet.

The village-clock has chimed it's simple pealMy books thrown by, across the daisied mead, Or where the sheep-track slopes into the dell,

I stroll and muse on many a gallant deed, Wrought by my country in her hour of needWhen, hark! the cuckow from her secret shrine, A living echo, snaps the air-hung thread;

And her loved haunts reluctant to resign,

Pauses by fits the hare, and says, "These realms are mine."

But chiefly thee, thou blue resounding main,
I see, I hear-as with yon rocky bar,*

Which flings it's arms athwart thy mighty reign, • Filey Bridge,

Vainly thou wagest an eternal war;
Thy foamy crest is visible afar,

The fisher's skiff is tossing on the surge:

Here giant cragst oppose thy billows' jar,

Whence their scared flight the screaming sea-mews

urge;

There Scarbro's castled cliff indents th' horizon's

verge.

Yet lovelier far and welcomer to me

Whom late I left in Autumn's sere decay Mourning my loss, mine own ACACIA-TREE, Thou hail'st me back in all thy green array! O still thy tall and graceful stem display, When He who rear'd to other worlds is gone Memorial of a Master pass'd away,

Wave still thy boughs; in lieu of funeral stone,

And be his name by thee, to coming days made

known.

WRANGHAM.

HOW JOYOUS WILL THAT MOMENT BE.

How joyous will that moment be

When first from mortal fetters freed,

This drear abode we willing flee,

And soaring swift to bliss we speed:

So strange, so sweet that change will come,
With wondering joy our spirits rise

In glory to that long lost home

We oft have sought with weeping eyes;

The sufferer 'mid his dying strife,

Ne'er felt such balm his soul surprise, When he who call'd him first to life,

From Death's chill couch once bade him rise.

Such glowing life, or beauty bright,

Ne'er on the blind fresh vision broke, When he who said, 'Let there be light,' Again that word in mercy spoke.

'Tis still his voice that bids us rise,

When Death's dark shade has o'er us pass'd,

It is not life, but death that dies,

When the thick shroud is round us cast:

Tho' mortals weep a creature dead,

Yet angels hail a brother born;

The body sinks to night's dark bed,

The spirit hails an endless morn.

ROBY.