Rest on, thy sepulchre that boundless deep;
Let mourners gather round each churchyard grave,
To scatter flowers on it whilst they weep;
But for thee, Evening, treading on the wave,
Her form, with misty mantle folded round,
And vaguely visible to mortal eye,

Shall stand and scatter on thy greener mound
The golden flowers of the western sky.
Sheltered within my heart, where gently falls
Time's wearing wave, thy memory shall last;
And still as night rebuilds the shadowy halls
In which our souls hold converse with the past;
When, before slumber, earthly troubles bow,
And nought below my closed eyes may see,
Thought with her wand shall touch my sleeping brow,
And leave its impress in a dream of thee.

FAREWELL TO THE SEA.

OLD ocean, I have dared to call thee friend,
For if I had a secret, to thy wave

I uttered it in trust; and thou wouldst lend
A sympathy; and, silent as the
grave,
Wouldst keep it buried in thy faithful heart,
Nor ever suffer any tell-tale shell
To breathe it in the ear; so true thou art;
And now I linger on thy beach to say

"Farewell."
Farewell! I think to-morrow there will be
One sand-speck less on thine exhaustless shore,
One insect life lost to the peopled sea,

One small shell stolen from the spangled floor;
Untwined, perchance, one poor dishevelled tress
Of seaweed from a rock, or, on the fleece
Of one lone wave, a single foam-flake less;

-So much am I to thee, thou fount of half my peace.

THE FIRST PRIMROSE.

BEAUTIFUL flower! whose pale hue is taken
From the faint lustre of the night's first star,
Of all thy gentle race, the first to waken,
After the roll of Winter's icy car.

The dewdrops hang on thee, with gems of rain,
Which are the smiles upon thy patient face,
And, with the strength of weakness, thou dost chain
My wandering steps, to linger in this place.
What angel in the moonlight wanly shining,
Whispered to thee that summer was at hand,
That thou shouldst kindly come to us entwining
A thousand green leaves with the barren land,
Cheering the soul in care's unsolaced night,

Like a kind word, and throwing round thy way
A glow, like the first trembling beam of light
To one who waits and watches for the day?
Art thou a new creation, called to being

By the blue clearness of the summer sky,
The reckless blast of autumn-time foreseeing,
When thou, too fair a thing to live, must die?
Or, through the winter dost thou only slumber,
Losing in dust the paleness of thy hue;
The summer leaves returning without number,
To burst forth from thy chrysalis anew?

Thou comest like a ray of the warm sun,

To thaw the fettered streamlet's robe of snow, Beaming upon us like the eyes of one

We feared might never wake again below.

But now we know that summer never dies;

Green leaves have come where autumn leaves were

sweeping,

And flowers are coming too, and clear blue skies;

Hurrah! the primroses were only sleeping!

THOMAS COX.

THE following, entitled "Country Poems," are from the pen of the author of "Melancholy, and other Poems;" a volume first published in 1856, of which a revised edition, containing additional poems, was published the following year. Of this delightful volume, so favourably received by the public and the press, the Editor of the "Critic" thus faithfully writes:- "There is much rough, unpolished power about Mr. Cox's muse. It is precisely that kind of power which distinguishes the minstrel from the rhymer. The Sonnets are not quite free from the faults we have named, but they possess fervour, stateliness, and richness of idea." We have much pleasure in endorsing this opinion, and in introducing Mr. Cox's later compositions to our readers.

MARLOW'S SUMMER DREAM.

Lo! here I stand where my forefathers dwelt:
Out from the misty east 'mid streaks of fire
The morning cometh, and the dewdrops melt
From off the jasmin, by the lattice wire.
Slowly from the sky the stars retire,
When rustic ploughman waketh from his rest,
And the pale moon slopes gently down the west.

Deeper in the ivy now the owlet creeps-to shun
His awkward visage from the saucy mirth

Of idle finch or linnet, when to the sun

The rose first opes its lips, and the Earth
With merriment doth greet the Morning's birth.
Aside her dusky veil she quickly throws,
All while around the merry bugle blows.

Awake, ye shepherds! for the twilight yields
To the red summer's sun. Insect and bird
Are twittering loud through all the grassy fields.
Arise, ye lovely nymphs! have you not heard
Apollo's horn, Aurora's waking word,
And the rude carol that the minstrel sings
Loud o'er the buzzing of a thousand wings?

Now joyful tongues are wagging merrily,
That all the night were silent as its own
Again the mavis chants from the old tree,
Again the bee to flowery fields hath flown,
When gentle odours from the south are blown.
The sun comes up-again the breezes play,
Aurora smiles, and all the woods are gay.

Can bird and insect greet so fair a sight

And man be silent, dull as the cold ground That drinks the chilly vapour of the night, When beauty 's shining everywhere around Heedless of every pleasant sight and sound? Too true, tho' beauty shines from many a favour'd spot, The worldling passes by and heeds it not.

Life receives new vigour, glad things rise

At sight of the fair blushing summer's day, To shake the night's dark drops of sorrow from their eyes. Now with the floral queen I fain would stray, And in her fragrant footsteps shape my way, Through pleasant gardens, uplands, valleys fair, When the cool, limpid stream is murmuring there. Then forth we went to have a quiet look

At the clear ripples 'mid a leafy shrine, When Nature's music, issuing from a brook,

Brought 'neath its pleasing shade the lowing kine. A sweet recess of hazel, birch, and pine, With arching willows, made th' abode complete; A sweet protection from the summer's heat. How pleasant 'tis to linger in green bowers! Old Winter-ha! bury him in snow;

Let us wander 'neath such leafy towers,

And far in northern clime his beard may grow;
We'll have no more of him, no, no!-

Not e'en so much as the bright sparkling rime
That whites the meadows o'er in autumn time.

Not e'en so much as the rich figured pane

In calm October, nought but thy garlands, lovely queen, So fresh and fragrant, may summer never wane.

Come forth, fair Flora, come! the fields are green,
Sweet-scented blossoms on the shrubs are seen,

And modest flowers by the fair brooklet rise,
Forget-me-nots-those gems of many sighs.