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And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
And airs of evening, and it knew
That seldom-heard mysterious sound
Which, driven on its diurnal round,
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way;—
All this it knows, but will not tell
To those who cannot question well
The spirit that inhabits it:
It talks according to the wit
Of its companions, and no more
Is heard than has been felt before,
By those who tempt it to betray
These secrets of an elder day.
But, sweetly as its answers will
Flatter hands of perfect skill,
It keeps its highest, holiest tone
For our beloved friend alone.


From COLERIDGE we gather a little gem composed in his most

poetical mood. What a description of a tiny fountain!

and beautiful the images it suggests to him.

THIS Sycamore, oft musical with bees,

How many

Such tents the patriarchs loved! O long unharm'd
May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy

The small round basin, which this jutting stone

Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring,
Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,

Send up cold waters to the traveller

With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease
Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,
Which at the bottom, like a fairy's page,
As merry and no taller, dances still,

Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount.
Here twilight is and coolness: here is moss,
A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree.
Drink, pilgrim, here! Here rest! and, if thy heart
Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh
Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees.


Turning the thoughts back to the poets of old times, memory lights on a powerful composition by ROBERT SOUTHWELL. The singular condensation of language and ideas in the following poem will strike the least attentive reader. It would be well if, in this respect, our modern authors would follow the example of their predecessors. Writers of the present day are as diffuse as those of the Elizabethian age were sententious. The latter had more thoughts than words-the former have more words than thoughts-the one condensed an original idea into a single line-the others spread a single idea over a page.

THE lopped tree in time may grow again;

Most naked plants renew both fruit and flowers ;
The sorriest wight may find release from pain;
The driest soil suck in some moistening showers;
Times go by turns, and chances change by course
From foul to fair-from better hap to worse.

The sea of fortune doth not ever flow-
She draws her favours to the lowest ebb,
Her tides have equal times to come and go-
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web-
No joy so great, but runneth to an end;
No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring-
No endless night, nor yet eternal day;
The saddest bird a season finds to sing,
The roughest storm a calm may soon allay :
Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all,
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.

A chance may win what by mischance was lost;
That net that holds no great, takes little, fish :
In some things all, in all things none are cross'd;
Few all they need, but none have all they wish;
Unmingled joys here to no man befal;

Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.


In a lighter strain, and for variety's sake, we introduce a short lyric by MARY HOWITT. We love it, because it is so simple and natural. There is no attempt to be fine or profound. The style befits the subject, and the verse is just that which such a scene would inspire. Therefore it is good poetry.

LONG trails of cistus flowers

Creep on the rocky hill;
And beds of strong spear-mint
Grow round about the mill;
And from a mountain tarn above,
As peaceful as a dream,
Like to child unruly

Though school'd and counsell'd truly,
Foams down the wild mill-stream!
The wild mill-stream it dasheth,
In merriment away,
And keeps the miller and his son
So busy all the day!

Into the mad mill-stream
The mountain roses fall;
And fern and adder's-tongue
Grow on the old mill-wall.
The tarp is on the upland moor,
Where not a leaf doth grow;
And through the mountain gashes
The merry mill-stream dashes
Down to the sea below;
But in the quiet hollows

The red trout groweth prime,
For the miller and the miller's son
To angle when they've time.

Then fair befall the stream

That turns the mountain mill,
And fair befall the narrow road
That windeth up the hill!
And good luck to the countryman,
And to his old grey mare,
That upward toileth steadily,
With meal-sacks laden heavily,
In storm as well as fair!

And good luck to the miller

And to the miller's son;

And ever may the wind-wheel turn
While mountain waters run!


The author of this exquisite poem is the Rev. THOMAS MOULTRIE, and it was, we believe, a contribution to one of the annuals many years ago. It has been often reprinted in collections of fugitive poetry, and probably few or none of our readers are unacquainted with it. Most certainly it is entitled to a place among BEAUTIFUL POETRY, for few things more beautiful exist in our language. The conception of the poem is quite original; the description of the three little boys is a picture for a painter; the sentiment is extremely touching. Few who are parents could read it without a sympathetic sob. The simplicity of the language assorts well with the simplicity of the idea, and the pure spirit of pious resignation which it breathes-the consolation found by the Christian in the promises of his faith—is the poetry of religion.

I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould.

They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years.

I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is fair,

And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air: I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me, But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency; But that which others most admire is the thought which fills his mind,

The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find.

Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together


He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk.

Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or


But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all.

His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next;

He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth him to pray,

And strange, and sweet, and solemn then, are the words which he will say.

Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's

like me,


A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be: And when I look into his eyes and stroke his thoughtful brow,

I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now!

I have a son-a second son-a simple child of three;
I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be-
How silver-sweet those tones of his, when he prattles on my

I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's, keen,
Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever


But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling,

And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing.

When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street,

Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and


A playfellow is he to all, and yet with cheerful tone

Will sing his little songs of love, when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth,

To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may


As sweet a home for heavenly grace, as now for earthly love.

And if beside his grave the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him.'

I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I cannot tell, For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to dwell.

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