While Contemplation, on seraphic wings,
Mounts with the flame of sacrifice, and sings.
Twilight! I love thee: let thy glooms increase,
Till every feeling, every pulse, is peace:
Slow from the sky the light of day declines,
Clearer within the dawn of glory shines,
Revealing, in the hour of Nature's rest,
A world of wonders in the poet's breast:
Deeper, O Twilight ! then thy shadows roll,
An awful vision

opens on my

soul.- J. Montgomery.

BIRDS' NESTS.
SPRING is abroad! the cuckoo's note
Floats o'er the flowery lea;
Yet nothing of the mighty sea
Her welcome tones import :
Nothing of lands where she has been,
Of fortunes she has known;
The joy of this remember'd scene
Breathes in her song alone.
No traveller she, whose vaunting boast
Tells of each fair but far off coast:
She talks not here of eastern skies,
But of home and its pleasant memories.
Spring is abroad ! a thousand more
Sweet voices are around,
Which yesterday a farewell sound
Gave to some foreign shore;
I know not where it matters not;
To-day their thoughts are bent,
To pitch, in some sequester'd spot,
Their secret summer tent;

Hid from the glance of urchins' eyes, Peering already for the prize; While daily, hourly intervene The clustering leaves, a closer screen. In bank, in bush, in hollow hole High on the rocking tree, On the gray cliffs, that haughtily The ocean waves control; Far in the solitary fen, On heath, and mountain hoar, Beyond the foot or fear of men, Or by the cottage door; In grassy tuft, in ivy'd tower, Where'er directs the instinctive power, Or loves each jocund pair to dwell, Is built the cone, or feathery cell. Beautiful things ! than I, no boy Your traces may discern, Sparkling beneath the forest fern, With livelier sense of joy: I would not bear them from the nest, To leave fond hearts regretting; But, like the soul screen'd in the breast, Like gems in beauteous setting, Amidst Spring's leafy, green array I deem them; and from day to day, Passing, I pause, to turn aside, With joy, the boughs where they abide. The mysteries of life's early day Lay thick as summer dew, Like it, they glitter'd and they flew, With ardent youth away:

But not a charm of

yours has faded,
Ye are full of marvel still.
Now jewels cold, and now pervaded
With heavenly fire ye thrill
And kindle into life, and bear
Beauty and music through the air:
The embryos of a shell to-day;
To-morrow, and-away! away!
Methinks, even as I

gaze,

there springs Life from each tinted cone; And wandering thought has onward flown With speed-careering wings, To lands, to summer lands afar, To the mangrove, and the palm ; To the region of each stranger star Led by a blissful charm: Like toys in beauty here they layThey are gone o'er the sounding ocean's spray; They are gone to bowers and skies more fair, And have left us to our march of care.

W. Howitt.

THE FIRST GRIEF.

Oh! call

my

brother back to me; I cannot play alone; The summer comes with flower and bee

Where is my brother gone?
The butterfly is glancing bright

Across the sunbeam's track !
I care not now to chase its flight-

Oh! call my brother back.

The flowers run wild,--the flowers we sow'd

Around our garden tree;
Our vine is drooping with its load-

Oh! call him back to me.
“He would not hear my voice, fair child !
He

may not come to thee;
The face that once like spring-time smild,

On earth no more thou’lt see!
A rose's brief bright life of joy,

Such unto him was given;
Go, thou must play alone, my boy-

Thy brother is in heaven!
And has he left the birds and flowers,

And must I call in vain ?
And thro' the long, long summer hours,

Will he not come again?
And by the brook, and in the glade,

Are all our wand'rings o'er ?
Oh! while my brother with me play'd,

Would I had lov'd him more! Mrs. Hemans,

The hills all glow'd with a festive light,
For the royal city rejoic'd by night:
There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree-
Banners were lifted and streaming free;
Every tall pillar was wreath’d with fire-
Like a shooting meteor was every spire;
And the outline of many a dome on high
Was trac’d, as in stars, on the clear dark sky.

I pass'd through the streets; there were throngs on

throngs, Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs; There was music forth from each palace borneA peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn; The forests heard it, the mountains rang, The hamlets woke to its haughty clang; Rich and victorious was every tone, Telling the land of her foes o’erthrown. Didst thou not meet a mourner for all the slain ? Thousands lie dead on their battle-plain! Gallant and true were the hearts that fellGrief in the homes they have left must dwell; Grief o'er the features of childhood spread, And bowing the beauty of woman's head : [moan Didst thou hear, 'midst the songs, not one tender For the many brave to their slumber gone? I saw not the face of a weeper thereToo strong, perchance, was the bright lamp’s glare ! I heard not a wail ’midst the joyous crowdThe music of victory was all too loud ! Mighty it rolld on the winds afar, Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car; Through torches and streams its floods swept byHow could I listen for moan or sigh? Turn then away from life's pageants ! turn, If its deep story thy heart would lear: Ever too bright is that outward show, Dazzling the eyes till they see not woe! But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy view The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true; Nor fear to