Her simple heart could not but feel

The words we spoke were free from guile; She stooped, she blushed, she fixed her wheel, "Tis all in vain, — she can't but smile!

Just like sweet April's dawn appears
Her modest face, I see it yet,
And though I lived a hundred years
Methinks I never could forget

The pleasure that, despite her heart,
Fills all her downcast eyes with light,
The lips reluctantly apart,

The white teeth struggling into sight,

The dimples eddying o'er her cheek,

The rosy cheek that won't be still ;0, who could blame what flatterers speak, Did smiles like this reward their skill?

For such another smile, I vow,
Though loudly beats the midnight rain,
I'd take the mountain-side e'en now,
And walk to Luggelaw again!

SAMUEL FERGUSON.

THREAD AND SONG.

SWEETER and sweeter,

Soft and low,

Neat little nymph,

Thy numbers flow,

Urging thy thimble,
Thrift's tidy symbol,

Busy and nimble,

To and fro;

Prettily plying

Thread and song,

Keeping them flying

Late and long,

Through the stitch linger,

Kissing thy finger,

Quick, - as it skips along.

Many an echo,

Soft and low,

Follows thy flying

Fancy so,

Melodies thrilling,
Tenderly filling

Thee with their trilling,

Come and go;

Memory's finger,

Quick as thine,

Loving to linger

On the line,

Writes of another,

Dearer than brother:

Would that the name were mine!
J. W. PALMER.

This fall of water that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake,
This little bay, a quiet road
That holds in shelter thy abode;
In truth together ye do seem
Like something fashioned in a dream;
Such forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep!
But O fair Creature! in the light
Of common day so heavenly bright,
I bless thee, Vision as thou art,

I bless thee with a human heart:
God shield thee to thy latest years!
I neither know thee nor thy peers;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.

With earnest feeling I shall pray
For thee when I am far away;

For never saw I mien or face

In which more plainly I could trace
Benignity and home-bred sense
Ripening in perfect innocence.

Here scattered like a random seed,
Remote from men, thou dost not need
The embarrassed look of shy distress,
And maidenly shamefacedness:
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
The freedom of a mountaineer;
A face with gladness overspread,
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred;
And seemliness complete, that sways
Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
With no restraint, but such as springs
From quick and eager visitings
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
Of thy few words of English speech,
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife
That gives thy gestures grace and life!
So have I, not unmoved in mind,
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,
Thus beating up against the wind.

What hand but would a garland cull
For thee who art so beautiful?
O happy pleasure! here to dwell
Beside thee in some heathy dell;
Adopt your homely ways and dress,
A shepherd, thou a shepherdess !
But I could frame a wish for thee
More like a grave reality:

Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place;
Joy have I had; and going hence
I bear away my recompense.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:
Then why should I be loath to stir?
I feel this place was made for her;
To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last.

Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;
For I, methinks, till I grow old
As fair before me shall behold
As I do now, the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
And thee, the spirit of them all!

In a bower of gentle looks, Watering flowers, or reading books. And her voice, it murmurs lowly, As a silver stream may run, Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. And her smile, it seems half holy, As if drawn from, thoughts more far Than our common jestings are.

And if any poet knew her,

He would sing of her with falls
Used in lovely madrigals.

And if any painter drew her,

He would paint her unaware
With a halo round the hair.

And if reader read the poem,

He would whisper, "You have done a Consecrated little Una."

And a dreamer (did you show him That same picture) would exclaim, ""Tis my angel, with a name!"

And a stranger, when he sees her

In the street even, smileth stilly,
Just as you would at a lily.

And all voices that address her
Soften, sleeken every word,
As if speaking to a bird.

And all fancies yearn to cover

The hard earth whereon she passes,
With the thymy-scented grasses.

And all hearts do pray, "God love her!".
Ay, and always, in good sooth,
We may all be sure HE DOTH.

ELIZABETH BARKETT BROWNING.

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.

BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the children's hour.