And saileth joyfully.

A lovely path before her lies,
A lovely path behind;

She sails amid the loveliness
Like a thing with heart and mind.
Fit pilgrim through a scene so fair,
Slowly she beareth on;

A glorious phantom of the deep,
Risen up to meet the moon.

The moon bids her tenderest radiance fall
On her wavy streamer and snow-white wings,
And the quiet voice of the rocking sea

To cheer the gliding vision sings.

Oh! ne'er did sky and water blend
In such a holy sleep,

Or bathe in brighter quietude
A roamer of the deep.

So far the peaceful soul of heaven
Hath settled on the sea,

It seems as if this weight of calm
Were from eternity.

O World of Waters! the stedfast earth
Ne'er lay entranced like Thee!

Is she a vision wild and bright,
That sails amid the still moon-light
At the dreaming soul's command?
A vessel borne by magic gales,
All rigg'd with gossamery sails,
And bound for Fairy-land?
Ah no!-an earthly freight she bears
Of joys and sorrows, hopes and fears;
And lonely as she seems to be,

Thus left by herself on the moonlight sea,

In loneliness that rolls,

She hath a constant company
In sleep, or waking revelry,
Five hundred human souls!

ON THE PICTURE OF A GIRL LEADING HER BLIND MOTHER THROUGH THE WOOD.

The following very sweet and touching verses are by N. P. WILLIS.
THE green leaves as we pass

Lay their light fingers on thee unaware,
And by thy side the hazels cluster fair,
And the low forest-grass

Grows green and silken where the wood-paths wind—
Alas! for thee, sweet mother! thou art blind!

And nature is all bright;

And the faint gray and crimson of the dawn,
Like folded curtains, from the day are drawn;
And evening's purple light

Quivers in tremulous softness on the sky—
Alas! sweet mother! for thy clouded eye!

The moon's new silver shell
Trembles above thee, and the stars float up
In the blue air, and the rich tulip's cup
Is pencill'd passing well,

And the swift birds on glorious pinions flee-
Alas! sweet mother! that thou canst not see!

And the kind looks of friends
Peruse the sad expression in thy face,
And the child stops anid his bounding race,
And the tall stripling bends

Low to thine ear with duty unforgot-
Alas! sweet mother! that thou see'st them not!

But thou canst hear! and love
May richly on a human tone be pour'd,
And the least cadence of a whisper'd word
A daughter's love may prove-
And while I speak thou knowest if I smile,
Albeit thou canst not see my face the while!

Yes, thou canst hear! and He
Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hung,
To the attentive ear, like harps, hath strung
Heaven and earth and sea!

And 'tis a lesson in our hearts to know
With but one sense the soul may overflow.

BERANGER TO HIS OLD COAT.

BERANGER is emphatically the poet of homely things; the minstrel of society. His ingenious fancy could weave the most beautiful thoughts out of themes that in other hands would have been barren, if not repulsive. Here is an address to AN OLD COAT, exquisite poetry, on the most prosaic theme in the world. The translation is executed fairly, almost elegantly.

Be faithful still, thou poor dear coat of mine!
We, step for step, are both becoming old;

Ten years these hands have brush'd that nap of thine,
And Socrates did never more, I hold.

When to fresh tear and wear the time to be

Shall force thy sore-thinn'd texture to submit, Be philosophic and resist like me :

Mine ancient friend, we must not sunder yet.

Full well I mind, for I forget not much,

The day that saw thee first upon me put:
My birth-day 'twas, and as a crowning touch
Unto my pride, my friends all praised thy cut.
Thy indigence, which does me no disgrace,

Has never caused these kindly friends to flit;
Each at my fête yet shows a gladsome face :
Mine ancient friend, we must not sunder yet,

A goodly darn I on thy skirts espy,

And thereby hangs a sweet remembrance still. Feigning one eve from fond Lisette to fly,

She held by thee to baulk my seeming will. The tug was follow'd by a grievous rent,

And then her side of course I could not quit ;
Two days Lisette on that vast darning spent:
Mine ancient friend, we must not sunder yet.

Have e'er I made thee reek with musky steams,
Such as your self-admiring fools exhale?
Have I exposed thee, courting great men's beams,
To levee mock or antechamber rail?

A strife for ribbons all the land of France,

From side to side, well nigh asunder split; From thy lapelle nothing but wild flowers glance: Mine ancient friend, we must not sunder yet.

Fear no renewal of those courses vain,

Those madcap sports which once employ'd our hoursHours of commingled joyfulness and pain,

Of sunshine chequer'd here and there with showers.
I rather ought, methinks, thy faded cloth
From every future service to acquit ;

But wait awhile-one end will come to both:
Mine ancient friend, we shall not sunder yet.

HYMN TO THE NIGHT.

The tone of this little poem, by LONGFELLOW, is in perfect accord with the theme.

I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through the marble halls!

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;

The calm majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,

That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
Like some old poet's rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;

The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,—
From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!

Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-wing'd flight,

The welcome, the thrice-pray'd for, the most fair,
The best-beloved, Night!

FIRST LOVE'S RECOLLECTIONS.

JOHN CLARE was one of our uneducated poets. He was a shepherd, actually keeping sheep on the hills, and there he composed verses which he committed to memory, for he could not write. After a while he taught himself to write imperfectly, and when the fame of his poetical powers was noised abroad, he could not spell three consecutive words correctly. We have some of his manuscript poems in our possession, and they are curious specimens of the combination of great genius with ignorance of arts now so common, that it is difficult to imagine the existence of genius without them. His end was most melancholy. He became insane, and was confined for many years in the County Asylum -a Parish Pauper. This is one of his poems.

FIRST LOVE will with the heart remain
When its hopes are long gone by;
As frail rose blossoms still retain
Their fragrance when they die.

And joy's first dreams will haunt the mind
With the scenes 'mid which they sprung;
As Summer leaves the stems behind
On which Spring's blossoms hung.

I do not dare to call thee dear!
I've lost that right too long;
Yet once again I vex thine ear
With memory's idle song.

I felt a pride to speak thy name
But now that pride is gone;

And burning blushes speak my shame,

That thus I love thee on.

How loth to part! How fond to meet

Had we two used to be!

At sunset with what happy feet

I hasten'd unto thee!

Scarce three days past, once, ere we met

In spring, nay, wintry weather;

Now three years' suns have risen and set,
Nor found us once together.

Thy face was so familiar grown,
Thyself so often nigh;

A moment's memory when alone,
Would bring thee to mine eye.