THE BOB-O'LINKUM.

They pause, and we glow in their winning embraces;

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They drink our warm breath, rich with odour and song; Then, hurry away to their desolate places,

And look for us hourly, and mourn for us long.

We were born of the dews, and our destiny found us,
Embraced by a sunbeam, all budding and bright;
On its wing, came from heaven, the colour that crown'd us,
And the odour that makes us a living delight.

And when the warm glories of summer stream on us,
Our winglets of silk we unfold to the air;

Leaping upward in joy to the spirit that won us,
And made us the tenants of dwellings so fair.

THE BOB-O'LINKUM.

BY CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.

THOU Vоcal sprite,-thou feathered troubadour!
In pilgrim weeds through many a clime a ranger,
Com'st thou to doff thy russet suit once more,

And play, in foppish trim, the masking stranger? Philosophers may teach thy whereabouts and nature; But, wise as all of us, perforce, must think 'em, The school-boy best has fixed thy nomenclature,

And poets, too, must call thee Bob-O'Linkum!

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THE BOB-O'LINKUM.

Say! art thou, long mid forest glooms benighted,
So glad to skim our laughing meadows over,-
With our gay orchards here so much delighted,
It makes thee musical, thou airy rover?

Or are those buoyant notes the pilfered treasure
Of fairy isles, which thou hast learned to ravish
Of all their sweetest minstrelsy at pleasure,

And, Ariel-like, again on men to lavish?

They tell sad stories of thy mad-cap freaks,
Wherever o'er the land thy pathway ranges;
And even in a brace of wandering weeks,

They say, alike thy song and plumage changes.
Here both are gay; and when the buds put forth,
And leafy June is shading rock and river,
Thou art unmatched, blithe warbler of the North,
When through the balmy air thy clear notes quiver.

Joyous, yet tender,-was that gush of song

Learned from the brooks, where mid its wild flowers,

smiling,

The silent prairie listens all day long,

The only captive to such sweet beguiling?

Or didst thou, flitting through the verdurous halls
And columned isles of western groves symphonious,

Learn from the tuneful woods rare madrigals,

To make our flowering pastures here harmonious?

Caught'st thou thy carol from Ottawa maid,

Where, through the liquid fields of wild-rice plashing, Brushing the ears from off the burdened blade,

Her birch canoe o'er some lone lake is flashing?

Or did the reeds of some savannah south

Detain thee, while thy northern flight pursuing,

To place those melodies in thy sweet mouth,

The spice-fed winds had taught them in their wooing

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MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

Unthrifty prodigal !—is no thought of ill

Thy ceaseless roundelay disturbing ever? Or doth each pulse in choiring cadence still Throb on in music till at rest for ever? Yet now, in wildered maze of concord floating, "Twould seem, that glorious hymning to prolong, Old Time, in hearing thee, might fall a-doting, And pause to listen to thy rapturous song!

MY MOTHER'S GRAVE

BY JAMES ALDRICH.

IN beauty lingers on the hills

The death-smile of the dying day;

And twilight in my heart instils

The softness of its rosy ray
I watch the river's peaceful flow,
Here, standing by my mother's grave,

And feel my dreams of glory go,

Like weeds upon its sluggish wave.

MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

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God gives us ministers of love,

Which we regard not, being near; Death takes them from us, then we feel That angels have been with us here! As mother, sister, friend, or wife,

They guide us, cheer us, soothe our pain, And when the grave has closed between Our hearts and theirs, we love-in vain!

Would, MOTHER! thou couldst hear me tell
How oft, amid my brief career,

For sins and follies loved too well,

Hath fall'n the free repentant tear.

And, in the waywardness of youth,
How better thoughts have given to me
Contempt for error, love for truth,

Mid sweet remembrances of thee.

The harvest of my youth is done,

And manhood, come with all its cares,

Finds, garnered up within my heart,

For every flower a thousand tares.

Dear MOTHER! couldst thou know my thoughts,

Whilst bending o'er this holy shrine,

The depth of feeling in my breast,

Thou wouldst not blush to call me thine!