By human eyes, nor praised by human tongues. The Cataract exults among the hills,

And wears its crown of rainbows all alone,

Libel the ocean on his tawny sands,

Write verses in his praise,-the unmoved sea

Erases both alike. Alas, for man!

Unless his fellows can behold his deeds,
He cares not to be great.

THE NOON.

WHEN the heart-sick earth

Turns her broad back upon the gaudy Sun,
And stoops her weary forehead to the night,
To struggle with her sorrow all alone,
The Moon, that patient sufferer, pale with pain,
Presses her cold lips on her sister's brow,
Till she is calm.

You've sat the night out Masters! see, the moon Lies stranded on the pallid coast of morn.

WALTER.

The sun is dying like a cloven king

In his own blood; the while the distant moon,

Like a pale prophetess, whom he has wronged, Leans eager forward with most hungry eyes, Watching him bleed to death, and, as he faints, She brightens and dilates; revenge complete, She walks in lonely triumph through the night.

VIOLET.

Give not such hateful passion to the orb
That cools the heated lands; that ripes the fields
While sleep the husbandmen, then hastes away
Ere the first step of dawn, doing all good
In secret and the night.

A mighty purpose rises large and slow
From out the fluctuations of my soul,

As, ghost-like, from the dim and tumbling sea
Starts the completed moon.

I read and read

Until the sun lifted his cloudy lids

And shot wild light along the leaping deep, Then closed his eyes in death. I shed no tear, I laid it down in silence, and went forth Burdened with its sad thoughts: slowly I went; And, as I wandered through the deepening gloom, I saw the pale and penitential moon

Rise from dark waves that plucked at her, and go Sorrowful up the sky.

THE STARS.

So be it, large he sinks! Repentant day
Free's with his dying hand the pallid stars
He held imprisoned since his young hot dawn
Now watch with what a silent step of fear
They steal out one by one, and overspread
The cool delicious meadows of the night.

See yon poor star

That shudders o'er the mournful hill of pines! "Twould almost make you weep, it seems so sad. "Tis like an orphan trembling with the cold, Over his mother's grave amongst the pines.

As when, upon a racking night, the wind Draws the pale curtains of the vapory clouds, And shows those wonderful mysterious voids, Throbbing with stars like puises.

This wood I've entered oft when all is sheen The princely Morning walks o'er diamond dews, And still have lingered, till the vain young Night Trembles o'er her own beauty in the sea.

NURSERY RHYMES.

IT

may excite surprise in some minds that the following simple Nursery Rhymes should be inserted in a volume of this kind, but we think no one can read these beautiful little pieces without feeling that Lord Jeffrey is right when, alluding to the volume from which these are selected ("Songs for the Nursery"), he says, "That there are more touches of genuine pathos, more felicities of idiomatic expression, more happy poetical images, and, above all, more sweet and engaging pictures of what is peculiar in the depth, softness, and thoughtfulness of our Scotch domestic affection, in this extraordinary little volume, than I have met with in anything like the same compass since the days of Burns."