With jubilant hope, for there, entranced, apart, The mock-bird sings, close, close to Nature's heart.

Shy forms about the greenery, out and in,

Flit 'neath the broadening glories of the morn;
The squirrel-that quaint sylvan harlequin -
Mounts the tall trunks; while swift as lightning,
born

Of summer mists, from tangled vine and tree
Dart the dove's pinions, pulsing vividly

Down the dense glades, till glimmering far and gray
The dusky vision softly melts away!

In transient, pleased bewilderment, I mark

The last dim shimmer of those lessening wings, When from lone copse and shadowy covert, hark ! What mellow tongue through all the woodland rings! The deer-hound's voice, sweet as the golden bell's, Prolonged by flying echoes round the dells, And up the loftiest summits wildly borne,

Blent with the blast of some keen huntsman's horn.

And now the checkered vale is left behind;

I climb the slope, and reach the hill-top bright; Here, in bold freedom, swells a sovereign wind,

Whose gusty prowess sweeps the pine-clad height; While the pines, - dreamy Titans roused from sleep, —Answer with mighty voices, deep on deep Of wakened foliage surging like a sea;

And o'er them smiles Heaven's calm infinity!

Paul Hamilton Hayne.

W

FLORIDA.

HERE Pablo to the broad St. John His dark and briny tribute pays, The wild deer leads her dappled fawn, Of graceful limb and timid gaze; Rich sunshine falls on wave and land, The gull is screaming overhead, And on a beach of whitened sand Lie wreathy shells with lips of red.

The jessamine hangs golden flowers

On ancient oaks in moss arrayed, And proudly the palmetto towers,

While mock-birds warble in the shade; Mounds, built by mortal hand, are near, Green from the summit to the base, Where, buried with the bow and spear, Rest tribes, forgetful of the chase.

Cassada, nigh the ocean shore,

Is now a ruin, wild and lone,
And on her battlements no more
Is banner waved or trumpet blown;
Those doughty cavaliers are gone

Who hurled defiance there to France, While the bright waters of St. John Reflected flash of sword and lance.

But when the light of dying day

Falls on the crumbling wrecks of time,

And the wan features of decay
Wear softened beauty, like the clime,
My fancy summons from the shroud
The knights of old Castile again,
And charging thousands shout aloud,
"St. Jago strikes to-day for Spain!"

When mystic voices, on the breeze
That fans the rolling deep, sweep by,
The spirits of the Yemassees,

Who ruled the land of yore, seem nigh;
For mournful marks, around where stood
Their palm-roofed lodges, yet are seen,
And in the shadows of the wood

Their tall, funereal mounds are green.

William Henry Cuyler Hosmer.

"I WAS A STRANGER, AND YE TOOK ME IN."

'NEATH skies that winter never knew

'NEATH

The air was full of light and balın, And warm and soft the Gulf wind blew Through orange bloom and groves of palm.

A stranger from the frozen North,

Who sought the fount of health in vain, Sank homeless on the alien earth,

And breathed the languid air with pain.

God's angel came! The tender shade
Of pity made her blue eye dim;
Against her woman's breast she laid
The drooping, fainting head of him.

She bore him to a pleasant room,

Flower-sweet and cool with salt sea air,
And watched beside his bed, for whom
His far-off sisters might not care.

She fanned his feverish brow and smoothed
Its lines of pain with tenderest touch.
With holy hymu and prayer she soothed

The trembling soul that feared so much

Through her the peace that passeth sight
Came to him, as he lapsed away
As one whose troubled dreams of night
Slide slowly into tranquil day.

The sweetness of the Land of Flowers
Upon his lonely grave she laid:
The jasmine dropped its golden showers,
The orange lent its bloom and shade.
And something whispered in her thought,
More sweet than mortal voices be:
"The service thou for him hast wrought,
O daughter! hath been done for me.

ALABAMA.

دو

John Greenleaf Whittier.

BRUISED and bleeding, pale and weary,

to the South and West,

Through dark woods and deserts dreary,
By relentless foemen pressed,

Came a tribe where evening, darkling,
Flushed a mighty river's breast;

And they cried, their faint eyes sparkling,

66

Alabama! Here we rest!"

By the stern steam-demon hurried,
Far from home and scenes so blest;
By the gloomy care-dogs worried,
Sleepless, houseless, and distressed,
Days and nights beheld me hieing
Like a bird without a nest,
Till I hailed thy waters, crying,

66

'Alabama! Here I rest!"

Oh! when life's last sun is blinking
In the pale and darksome West,
And my weary frame is sinking,
With its cares and woes oppressed,
May I, as I drop the burden

From my sick and fainting breast,
Cry, beside the swelling Jordan,

"AN early traveller mentions people on the banks of the Mississippi who burst into tears at the sight of a stranger. The reason of this is, that they fancy their deceased friends and relations to be only gone on a journey, and, being in constant expectation of their return, look for them vainly amongst these foreign travellers."-PICART'S Ceremonies and Religious Customs.

WE saw thee, O stranger! and wept.
We looked for the youth of the sunny glance
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance;