ODE.-INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY.

Moving about in worlds not realised,

High instincts, before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised!
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,

Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a matter light of all our seeing;

Uphold us-cherish and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal silence: truths that wake
To perish never;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor man nor boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!

Hence, in a season of calm weather,
Though inland far we be,

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither;

Can in a moment travel thither,
the shore,

And see the children sport upon
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

X.

Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound!

We, in thought, will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,

Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!

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What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find

Strength is what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy,

Which having been, must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring

Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.

XI.

And, oh, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
Think not of any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquish'd one delight,

To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the brooks, which down their channels fret
Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they :
The innocent brightness of a new-born day
Is lovely yet;

The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye

That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live ;
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears;
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

THE DAY IS DONE.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

THE day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only,

As the mist resembles the rain.

THE DAY IS DONE.

Come, read to me some poem—
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time;

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavour;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labour,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares that infest the day Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.

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THE WILD GEESE.

T. D'ARCY M'GEE.

"WHAT is the cry so wildly heard,
O mother dear, across the lake ?"
"My child, 'tis but the northern bird
Alighted in the reedy brake."

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Why cries the northern bird so wild?
Its wail is like our baby's voice."
""Tis far from its own home, my child,
And would you have it, then, rejoice ?"

"And why does not the wild bird fly

Straight homeward through the open air? I see no barriers in the sky;

Why does she sit lamenting there?"

"My child, the laws of life and death
Are written in four living books;
The wild bird reads them in the breath
Of winter, freezing up the brooks-

"Reads and obeys-more wise than manAnd meekly steers for other climes, Obeys the providential plan,

And humbly waits for happier times.

"The spring that makes the poets sing, Will whisper in the wild bird's ear, And swiftly back, on willing wing,

The wild bird to the north will steer."

"Will they come back, of whom that song Last night was sung, that made you weep?" "Oh! God is good, and hope is strong :My son, let's pray, and then to sleep."