But in some high and heavenly bower,

To have received its birth;

For pure is every thought,

And all its visions fair,

Its language with devotion fraught-
Like that of saints in prayer.-

II.

Love is a holy power

It seems not of this earth,

But in some high and heavenly bower,

To have received its birth;

It purifies the heart

From stains, this world has given,

And leads it forth to dream apart
Of joys like those in heaven.-

STANZAS.

1.

In sooth 'tis pleasant on a summer morn,
When the bright sun ascends the orient sky,

J. S. T.

And on the mountain breezes health is borne, While we enhale it, as they murmur by ; On some lone hill, in musing mood, to lie,There as we watch the day's advancing light, We learn, from it, that we but live to die— That sun will set, though shining then so bright; A few short fleeting hours, and all again is night.

II.

Yet sunshine seldom cheers the lot of life,
'Tis all a scene of lingering pain and woe,
A pilgrimage of fruitless care and strife,
A tide of sorrow that does ceaseless flow;
But some have thought they felt a joy below,
Which to their darker hours did solace prove,
Making their hearts with blissful feelings glow;
And not of earth it seems, but from above

It comes to cheer mankind, and mortals call it love.

III.

That thought is vain, as love's own happiness,
For soon its sweet illusion is no more;

And fly those hopes that promised lasting bliss,—
Then, when the dream of ecstacy is o'er,

We wake, to life far sadder than before,

It shoots athwart our visions, like the gleam
Of flitting sunshine o'er a desart shore,
Making the wilderness more dreary seem—
Oh! Love is all too like the shadows of a dream.

Iv.

'Tis piety alone that can impart

A peace of mind that ne'er will fade away,
A bliss that calms the passions of the heart,
A hope that soothes us even in decay,
Inspires the thought, and elevates the lay;
'Tis this that gives a glory to that hour
When death, relentless, seizes on his prey,
Then yet may pleasure dwell in earthly bower,
Though man buds, blooms, and withers like a summer

flower.

William Anderson.

EVENING SONG

OF THE TYROLESE PEASANTS.

Come to the sun-set tree!

The day is past and gone ;
The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done.

The twilight-star to heaven,

And the summer-dew to flowers,

And rest to us is given,

By the cool soft evening hours.

Sweet is the hour of rest!
Pleasant the wind's low sigh,
And the gleaming of the west,
And the turf whereon we lie;

When the burden and the heat
Of labour's task are o'er,
And kindly voices greet

The tired one at his door.

Come to the sun-set tree!

The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done.

Yes-tuneful is the sound

That dwells in whispering boughs; Welcome the freshness round,

And the gale that fans our brows..

But rest, more sweet and still
Than ever night-fall gave,
Our longing hearts shall fill,
In the world beyond the grave.

There shall no tempest blow,

No scorching noon-tide heat; There shall be no more snow, No weary wandering feet.

And we lift our trusting eyes,
From the hills our fathers trod,

To the quiet of the skies,
To the sabbath of our God.

Come to the sun-set tree!

The day is past and gone; The woodman's axe lies free,

And the reaper's work is done.

Mrs Hemans.