Think of him thy love had blessed! Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults perchance thou knowest,

All my madness none can know; All my hopes, where'er thou goest, Whither, - yet with thee they go. Every feeling hath been shaken; Pride, which not a world could bow,

Bows to thee, - by thee forsaken,

Even my soul forsakes me now; But 'tis done, - all words are idle, Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle

Force their way without the will. Fare thee well! thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie, Seared in heart, and love, and blighted,

More than this I scarce can die.

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm,

Scarce reared above the parentearth Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield

High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield;

But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod, or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawy bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless Maid,
Sweet floweret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betrayed,

And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid Low in the dust.

luckless

Such is the fate of simple Bard, life's rough starred!

On

ocean

Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven,

By human pride or cunning driven
To misery's brink,
Till, wrenched of every stay but
Heaven,
He, ruined, sink!

Even thou who mourn'st the daisy's

fate,

That fate is thine- no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight

Shall be thy doom! BURNS.

THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF

AGASSIZ.

MAY 28, 1857.

IT was fifty years ago,

In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay.

And Nature, the old nurse, took
The child upon her knee,
Saying, "Here is a story-book
Thy Father has written for thee."

"Come, wander with me," she said,
Into regions yet untrod,
And read what is still unread
In the manuscripts of God."

And he wandered away and away,
With Nature, the dear old nurse,
Who sang to him night and day
The rhymes of the universe.

And whenever the way seemed long, Or his heart began to fail,

She would sing a more wonderful song,

Or tell a more marvellous tale.

So she keeps him still a child,
And will not let him go,
Though at times his heart beats
wild

For the beautiful Pays de Vaud;

Though at times he hears in his dreams

The Ranz des Vaches of old, And the rush of mountain streams From glaciers clear and cold;

And the mother at home says, "Hark!

For his voice I listen and yearn: It is growing late and dark, And my boy does not return!" LONGFELLOW.

THE WANTS OF MAN.

"MAN wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long." 'Tis not with me exactly so; But 'tis so in the song.

DEAR lady, I a little fear 'Tis dangerous to be writing here. His hand who bade our eagle fly, Trust his young wings, and mount the sky,

Who bade across the Atlantic tide New thunders sweep, new navies ride,

Has traced in lines of trembling

age

His autograph upon this page.
Higher than that eagle soars,
Wider than that thunder roars,
His fame shall through the world be
sounding,

And o'er the waves of time be bounding.

Though thousands as obscure as I,
Cling to his skirts, he still will fly
And leap to immortality.

If by his name I write my own,
He'll take me where I am not known,
The cold salute will meet my ear,
"Pray, stranger, how did you come
here?"

DANIEL WEBSTER.

A KING lived long ago,

In the morning of the world, When Earth was nigher Heaven than now:

And the King's locks curled Disparting o'er a forehead full

As the milk-white space 'twixt horn and horn

Of some sacrificial bull.

Only calm as a babe new-born: For he was got to a sleepy mood,

So safe from all decrepitude, Age with its bane so sure gone by, (The gods so loved him while he dreamed,}

That, having lived thus long, there seemed

No need the King should ever die.

Among the rocks his city was; Before his palace, in the sun, He sat to see his people pass,

And judge them every one From its threshold of smooth stone.

ROBERT BROWNING.