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The Family Bible.—ANoNYMous.

How painfully pleasing the fond recollection
Of youthful connexions and innocent joy,
When, blessed with parental advice and affection,
Surrounded with mercies, with peace from on high,
I still view the chair of my sire and my mother,
The seats of their offspring as ranged on each hand,
And that richest of books, which excelled every other-
That family Bible, that lay on the stand;
The old-fashioned Bible, the dear, blessed Bible,
The family Bible, that lay on the stand.

That Bible, the volume of God's inspiration,
At morn and at evening, could yield us delight,
And the prayer of our sire was a sweet invocation,
For mercy by day, and for safety through night.
Our hymns of thanksgiving, with harmony swelling,
All warm from the heart of a family band,
Half raised us from earth to that rapturous dwelling,
Described in the Bible, that lay on the stand;
That richest of books, which excelled every other—
The family Bible, that lay on the stand.

Ye scenes of tranquillity, long have we parted;
My hope’s almost gone, and my parents no more;
In sorrow and sadness I live broken-hearted,
And wander unknown on a far distant shore.
Yet how can I doubt a dear Savior's protection,
Forgetful of gifts from his bountiful hand!
0, let me, with patience, receive his correction,
And think of the Bible, that lay on the stand;
That richest of books, which excelled every other—
The family Bible, that lay on the stand.

—oThe Notes of the Birds.-I. McLELLAN, JUN

WELL do I love those various harmonies

at ring so gayly in Spring's budding woods,
And in the thickets, and green, quiet haunts,
And lonely copses of the Summer-time,
And in red Autumn's ancient solitudes.

If thou art pained with the world's noisy stir, Or crazed with its mad tumults, and weighed down With any of the ills of human life; If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the loss Of brethren gone to that far distant land To which we all do pass, gentle and poor, The gayest and the gravest, all alike, Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hear The thrilling music of the forest birds.

How rich the varied choir : The unquiet finch Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren Uttereth her sweet and mellow plaint at times, And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangs Its crimson-spotted cups, or chirps half hid Amid the lowly off. snowy flowers, And the blue jay flits by, from tree to tree, And, spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear . With its shrill-sounding and unsteady cry.

With the sweet airs of Spring, the robin comes; And in her simple song there seems to gush A strain of sorrow when she visiteth Her last year's withered nest. But when the gloom Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch Upon the red-stemmed hazel's slender twig, That overhangs the brook, and suits her song To the slow rivulet’s inconstant chime.

In the last days of Autumn, when the corn Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest field, And the gay company of reapers bind The bearded wheat in sheaves, then peals abroad The blackbird’s merry chant. I love to hear, Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of song Float from thy watch-place on the mossy tree Close at the corn-field edge.

Lone whippoorwill, There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn, Heard in the drowsy watches of the night. Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out, And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant Thy hollow dirge, like some recluse who takes His lodging in the wilderness of woods,

And lifts his anthem when the world is still:
And the dim, solemn night, that brings to man
And to the herds, deep slumbers, and sweet dews
To the red roses and the herbs, doth find
No eye, save thine, a watcher in her halls.
I hear thee oft at midnight, when the thrush
And the green, roving linnet are at rest,
And the blithe, twittering swallows have long ceased
Their noisy note, and folded up their wings.

Far up some brook’s still course, whose current mines The forest's blackened roots, and whose green marge Is seldom visited by human foot, The lonely heron sits, and harshly breaks The Sabbath silence of the wilderness: And you may find her by some reedy pool, Or brooding gloomily on the time-stained rock, Beside some misty and far-reaching lake.

Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom,
Gray watcher of the waters! Thou art king
Of the blue lake; and all the winged kind
Do fear the echo of thine angry cry.
How bright thy savage eyes Thou lookest down,
And seest the shining fishes as they glide;
And, poising thy gray wing, thy glossy beak
Swift as an arrow strikes its roving prey.
Ofttimes I see thee, through the curling mist,
Dart, like a spectre of the night, and hear
Thy strange, bewildering call, like the wild scream
Of one whose life is perishing in the sea.

And now, would'st thou, O man, delight the ear
With earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eye
With beautiful creations? Then pass forth,
And find them midst those many-colored birds
That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues
Lie in their splendid plumage, and their tones
Are sweeter than the music of the lute,
Or the harp's melody, or the notes that gush
So thrillingly from Beauty's ruby lip.

31

Sentimental JMusic.—F. G. HALLEck.

Sounds as of far off bells came on his ears;
He fancied 'twas the music of the spheres;
He was mistaken; it was no such thing;
'Twas Yankee Doodle, played by Scudder's band.
He muttered, as he lingered, listening,
Something of freedom, and our happy land;
Then sketched, as to his home he hurried fast,
This sentimental song, his saddest, and his last:—

“Young thoughts have music in them, love

And happiness their theme;

And music wanders in the wind
That lulls a morning dream.

And there are angel voices heard,
In childhood’s frolic hours,

When life is but an April day,
Of sunshine and of flowers.

“There’s music in the forest leaves

When summer winds are there,

And in the laugh of forest girls
That braid their sunny hair.

The first wild bird that drinks the dew
From violets of the spring,

Has music in his song, and in
The fluttering of his wing.

“There’s music in the dash of waves,

When the swift bark cleaves their foam ;

There's music heard upon her deck—
The mariner’s song of home—

When moon and star-beams, smiling, meet,
At midnight, on the sea;

And there is music once a week
In Scudder's balcony.

*But the music of young thoughts too soon

Is faint, and dies away,

And from our morning dreams we wake
To curse the coming day.

And childhood's frolic hours are brief,
And oft, in after years,

Their memory comes to chill the heart,
And dim the eye with tears.

“To-day the forest leaves are green;

They’ll wither on the morrow,

And the maiden's laugh be changed, ere long,
To the widow’s wail of sorrow.

Come with the winter snows, and ask
Where are the forest birds;

The answer is a silent one,
More eloquent than words.

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The moonlight music of the waves
In storms is heard no more,
When the livid lightning mocks the wreck
At midnight on the shore;
And the mariner's song of home has ceased –
His corse is on the sea;
And music ceases, when it rains,
In Scudder's balcony.”

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THERE is no form upon our earth,
That bears the mighty Maker's seal,

But has some charm : to draw this forth,
We need but hearts to feel.

I saw a fair young girl—her face
Was sweet as dream of cherished friend-

Just at the age when childhood’s grace
And maiden softness blend.

A silk-worm in her hand she laid;
Nor fear, nor yet disgust, was stirred;

But gayly with her charge she played,
As 'twere a nestling bird.

She raised it to her dimpled cheek,
And let it rest and revel there:

O, why for outward beauty seek!
Love makes its favorites fair.

That worm—I should have shrunk, in truth, To feel the reptile o'er me move,

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