THE live-long day, 'neath the bright sun's ray,
We have gathered the purple fruit;

Let our hymn now rise to the evening skies,
On the breath of the wakeful lute.

The morning dew, with its changing hue,
Welcomed our joyous throng;

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GREEK GIRL'S SONG IN EXILE.

And the choristers bright, in the early light,
Hailed us with gentle song.

And away we sped, by their music led,
Where the teeming clusters hung;
Where odorous flowers, from loaded bowers,
Their fragrance wildly flung.

But the race is run of this day's sun,
And the ocean his light is stealing;
While the dews of eve to the valleys cleave,
And life is in their revealing.

With joyous heart let us now depart,
To rest till the dawn of morning;

And, at that hour, may we rise in power,

To the gladness of life returning.

REV. A. L. SIMPSON.

GREEK GIRL'S SONG IN EXILE.

HERE is the Summer, with her golden sun?

That festal glory hath not passed from earth:

For me alone the laughing day is done,

Where is the Summer with her voice of mirth ?—

Far in my own bright land!

Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe and die
On the green hills? the founts, from sparry caves

A WISH.

Through the wild places bearing melody?

The reeds, low whispering o'er the river waves ?——
Far in my own bright land!

Where are the temples, through the dim woods shining,
The virgin-dances and the choral strains?
Where the sweet sisters of my youth, entwining
The Spring's first roses for their silvan fanes ?---
Far in my own bright land!

Where are the vineyards, with their joyous throngs;
The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades ?
The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs,
And the pine forests, and the olive shades?-
Far in my own bright land!

Where, the deep, haunted grots, the laurel bowers,
The Dryads' footsteps, and the minstrels' dreams?

Oh, that my life were as a southern flower's!

I might not languish then by these chill streams,
Far from my own bright land!

MRS. HEMANS.

A WISH.

H, for a draught of vintage, that hath been

Cooled a long age in the deep delvéd earth,

Fasting of Flora and the country-green,

Dance and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth!

Oh, for a beaker full of the warm South,

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

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