And bore him further on, and laid his head
Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub;

And, shrouding up her face, she went away,
And sat to watch, where he could see her not,

Till he should die; and, watching him, she mourn'd:-
"God stay thee in thine agony, my boy!
I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook
Upon thy brow to look,

And see death settle on my cradle joy.
How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye!
And could I see thee die?

"I did not dream of this when thou wast straying,
Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers;
Or wiling the soft hours,

By the rich gush of water-sources playing,
Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep,
So beautiful and deep.

"Oh no! and when I watch'd by thee the while,
And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream,
And thought of the dark stream
In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile,
How pray'd I that my father's land might be
An heritage for thee!

"And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee!
And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press;
And oh my last caress

Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee.
How can I leave my boy, so pillow'd there
Upon his clustering hair!"

She stood beside the well her God had given
To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed
The forehead of her child until he laugh'd
In his reviving happiness, and lisp'd
His infant thought of gladness at the sight
Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

I love to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,

And persuade myself that I am not old,

And my locks are not yet gray;

For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,

And makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice,

And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walk'd the world for fourscore years; And they say that I am old,

That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, And my years are well-nigh told.

It is very true; it is very true;

I'm old, and "I 'bide my time:"
But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.

Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smother'd call,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go;

For the world at best is a weary place,

And my pulse is getting low :

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail

In treading its gloomy way;

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness
To see the young so gay.

REVERIE AT GLENMARY.

I have enough, O God! My heart to-night
Runs over with its fulness of content;
And as I look out on the fragrant stars,
And from the beauty of the night take in
My priceless portion-yet myself no more
Than in the universe a grain of sand-
I feel His glory who could make a world,
Yet in the lost depths of the wilderness
Leave not a flower unfinish'd!

Rich, though poor!
My low-roof'd cottage is this hour a heaven.
Music is in it-and the song she sings,
That sweet-voiced wife of mine, arrests the ear
Of my young child awake upon her knee;
And with his calm eye on his master's face,
My noble hound lies couchant; and all here-
All in this little home, yet boundless heaven-
Are, in such love as I have power to give,
Blessed to overflowing.

Thou, who look'st

Upon my brimming heart this tranquil eve,

Knowest its fulness, as thou dost the dew
Sent to the hidden violet by Thee;

And, as that flower, from its unseen abode,
Sends its sweet breath up, duly, to the sky,
Changing its gift to incense, so, oh God!

May the sweet drops that to my humble cup
Find their far way from heaven, send up, to Thee,
Fragrance at thy throne welcome!

LOOK NOT UPON THE WINE WHEN IT IS RED.

Look not upon the wine when it

Is red within the cup!

Stay not for Pleasure when she fills

Her tempting beaker up!

Though clear its depths, and rich its glow,
A spell of madness lurks below.

They say 'tis pleasant on the lip,
And merry on the brain;

They say it stirs the sluggish blood,
And dulls the tooth of pain-
Ay! but within its glowing deeps
A stinging serpent, unseen, sleeps.

Its rosy lights will turn to fire,

Its coolness change to thirst;
And, by its mirth, within the brain
A sleepless worm is nursed.
There's not a bubble at the brim
That does not carry food for him.

Then dash the brimming cup aside,
And spill its purple wine;
Take not its madness to thy lip,

Let not its curse be thine.

"Tis red and rich-but grief and wo

Are hid those rosy depths below.

THE CLIMATES OF ENGLAND AND AMERICA.

It is almost a matter of course to decry the climate of England. The English writers themselves talk of suicidal months; and it is the only country where part of the livery of a mounted groom is his master's great coat, strapped about his waist. It is certainly a damp climate, and the sun shines less in England than in most other countries. But to persons of full habit, this moisture in the air is extremely agreeable; and the high condition of all animals in England, from man downward,

proves its healthfulness. A stranger who has been accustomed to a brighter sky will at first find a gloom in the gray light so characteristic of an English atmosphere; but this soon wears off, and he finds a compensation, as far as the eye is concerned, in the exquisite softness of the verdure, and the deep and enduring brightness of the foliage. The effect of this moisture on the skin is singularly grateful. The pores become accustomed to a healthy action, which is unknown in other countries; and the bloom by which an English complexion is known all over the world, is the index of an activity in this important part of the system, which, when first experienced, is almost like a new sensation. The transition to a dry climate, such as ours, deteriorates the condition and quality of the skin, and produces a feeling, if I may so express it, like that of being glazed. It is a common remark in England that an officer's wife and daughters follow his regiment to Canada at the expense of their complexions; and it is a well-known fact that the bloom of female beauty is, in our country, painfully evanescent.

The habit of regular exercise in the open air, which is found to be so salutary in England, is scarcely possible in America. It is said, and said truly, of the first, that there is no day in the year when a lady may not ride comfortably on horseback; but with us the extremes of heat and cold, and the tempestuous character of our snows and rains, totally forbid to a delicate person anything like regularity in exercise. The consequence is, that the habit rarely exists; and the high and glowing health so common in England, and consequent, no doubt, upon the equable character of the climate, in some measure, is with us sufficiently rare to excite remark. "Very English-looking!" is a common phrase, and means very healthy-looking. Still, our people last; and though I should define the English climate as the one in which the human frame is in the highest condition, I should say of America, that it is the one in which you could get the most work out of it.

UNWRITTEN POETRY.

There is poetry that is not written. It is living in the hearts. of many to whom rhyme is a mystery. As I here use it, it is delicate perception; something which is in the nature, enabling one man to detect harmony, and know forms of beauty, better than another. It is like a peculiar gift of vision; not creating a new world, but making the world we live in more

visible; enabling us to combine and separate and arrange elements of beauty into the fair proportions of a picture. The poet hears music in common sounds, and sees loveliness by the wayside. There is not a change in the sky, nor a noise of the water, nor a sweet human voice, which does not bring him pleasure. He sees all the light and hears all the music about him-and this is poetry.

To one thus gifted, nature is a friend of many sweet offices and true consolations. Call it visionary if you will, she has glad fellowship for the happy, and medicine for the wounded spirit, and calm communion for gentle thoughts, which are the life of his moral being. Let him seek her when he will, if his heart be anything but dead, the poor sympathy of the world is a mockery to her ministering influences. I dare go farther. The power of nature over such a mind as I have described is, in cases of extreme mental suffering, or abandonment, stronger than any other moral influence. There is something in its deep and serene beauty inexpressibly soothing to the diseased mind. It steals over it silently, and gradually, like an invisible finger, erasing its dark lines and removing its brooding shadows, and before he is aware, he is loving, and enjoying, and feeling, as he did in better days when his spirit was untroubled. To those who see nothing about them but physical convenience, these assertions may seem extravagant; but they are nevertheless true; and blessed be the Author of our faculties, there are some who know, by experience, that nature is a friend and a physician to the sick and solitary spirit of her worshipper.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW is the son of Hon. Stephen Longfellow, of Portland, Maine, and was born in that city on the 27th of February, 1807. At the age of fourteen, he entered Bowdoin College, Brunswick, and graduated there in 1825. Soon after, being offered a professorship of modern languages in his own college, he resolved to prepare himself thoroughly for his new duties, and accordingly left home for Europe, and passed three years and a half in travelling or residing in France, Spain, Italy, Germany, Holland, and England. He returned in 1829, and entered upon the duties of his office. In 1835,