And the thrush sang loudly
On the hawthorn spray,
And the brooklet ever
Made music on its way.

I watched unseen, oft sighing,
To think what simple joy
Was here that earthly riches
Might seek in vain to buy.
How easy to be happy,

Where Nature doth suffice;
Wealth and grandeur are not
Found in Paradise.

THE VOICE OF THE GRASS.

By MARY HOWITT.

HERE I come creeping, creeping everywhere; By the dusty roadside,

On the sunny hillside,

Close by the noisy brook,

In every shady nook

I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere;
All round the open door,
Where sit the aged poor,

Here where the children play
In the bright and merry May,

I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

In the noisy city street,

My pleasant face you'll meet,

Cheering the sick at heart,

Toiling his busy part,

Silently creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
You cannot see me coming,
Nor hear my low sweet humming;

For in the starry night,

And the glad morning light,
I come quietly, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
More welcome than the flowers

In summer's pleasant hours;
The gentle cow is glad,

And the merry bird not sad,
To see me creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
When you're number'd with the dead,
In your still and narrow bed,

In the happy spring I'll come
And deck your silent home,
Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
My humble song of praise

Most gratefully I raise

To Him at whose command
I beautify the land,

Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

THE ROSE.

A ballad, by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, the American poet.

In his tower sat the poet
Gazing on the roaring sea,

"Take this rose," he sighed, "and throw it
Where there's none that loveth me.

On the rock the billow bursteth

And sinks back into the seas,

But in vain my spirit thirsteth
So to burst and be at ease.
Take, O sea! the tender blossom
That hath lain against my breast;
On thy black and angry bosom
It will find a surer rest.

Life is vain, and love is hollow,
Ugly death stands there behind,
Hate and scorn and hunger follow
Him that toileth for his kind.”
Forth into the night he hurled it,
And with bitter smile did mark
How the surly tempest whirled it
Swift into the hungry dark.
Foam and spray drive back to leeward,
And the gale, with dreary moan,
Drifts the helpless blossom seaward,
Through the breakers all alone.

Stands a maiden on the morrow,
Musing by the wave-beat strand,
Half in hope and half in sorrow,
Tracing words upon the sand:
"Shall I ever then behold him
Who hath been my life so long,—
Ever to this sick heart fold him,-
Be the spirit of his song?
Touch not, sea, the blessed letters
I have traced upon thy shore,
Spare his name whose spirit fetters
Mine with love for evermore!"
Swells the tide and overflows it,
But, with omen pure and meet,
Brings a little rose, and throws it
Humbly at the maiden's feet.
Full of bliss she takes the token,
And, upon her snowy breast,
Smoothes the ruffled petals, broken
With the ocean's fierce unrest.
"Love is thine, O heart! and surely
Peace shall also be thine own,
For the heart that trusteth purely
Never long can pine alone."

In his tower sits the poet,

Blisses new and strange to him Fill his heart and overflow it

With a wonder sweet and dim,

Up the beach the ocean slideth
With a whisper of delight,
And the moon in silence glideth
Through the peaceful blue of night.
Rippling o'er the poet's shoulder
Flows a maiden's golden hair,
Maiden lips, with love grown bolder,
Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare.
"Life is joy, and love is power,
Death all fetters doth unbind,
Strength and wisdom only flower
When we toil for all our kind.
Hope is truth-the future giveth
More than present takes away,
And the soul for ever liveth

Nearer God from day to day."
Not a word the maiden uttered,
Fullest hearts are slow to speak,
But a withered rose-leaf fluttered
Down upon the poet's cheek,

MARCH.

From the Critic, where it appears with the signature of JOHN BRITTON. It is full of promise.

HE stands like a warder stout and strong

In the open gate of the year.

He bloweth loud and he bloweth long

A blast on the horn in his hands,

And it rolleth shrilly and clear

Through the amber caves low under the waves,
And it rolleth along the lands.

The sprites of the fruits and flowers and leaves,
They had long been out at play
With the spirits that rule the mellow sheaves
In the crystalline palaces—

In the ether halls no mortal sees

In the gardens under the day:

But the stirring blast that clarion cast

Oh it broke their holyday!