Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
Pour out the river's gradual tide,

Shrilly the skater's iron rings,

And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay;
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,

Pale, desert woods, within your crowd; And gathered winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs, and wintry winds, my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year-
I listen, and it cheers me long.

A Last Wish.-ANONYMOUS.

WHEN breath and sense have left this clay,
In yon damp vault, O, lay me not!
But kindly bear my bones away

To some lone, green, and sunny spot;
Where few shall be the feet that tread,
With reckless haste, upon my grave;
And gently, o'er my last, still bed,

To whispering winds, the grass shall wave. The wild flowers, too, I loved so well,

Shall blow, and breathe their sweetness there,

And all around my grave shall tell,

"She felt that nature's face was fair."

And those that come because they loved
The mouldering frame that lies below,

Shall find their anguish half removed,

While that sweet spot shall soothe their wo.

The notes of happy birds alone

Shall there disturb the silent air;

And when the cheerful sun goes down,
His beams shall linger longest there.
And if,-when soft night breezes wake,

Roving among the sleeping flowers,
When dews their airy home forsake,
To rest till morn in earthly bowers,—
If, then, some dearer friend than all
Steal to my grave to weep awhile,
And happier hours awhile recall,
And bid fond memory beguile
The tediousness of cherished grief-
Faintly descried-a fading ray-
My passing ghost shall breathe relief,
And whisper-" Lingerer, come away!"

The Winged Worshippers.-CHARLES SPRAGUE.

GAY, guiltless pair,

What seek ye from the fields of heaven?
Ye have no need of prayer,

Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

Why perch ye here,

Where mortals to their Maker bend?

Can your pure spirits fear

The God ye never could offend?

Ye never knew

The crimes for which we come to weep:
Penance is not for you,

Blessed wanderers of the upper deep.

To you 'tis given

To wake sweet nature's untaught lays;
Beneath the arch of heaven
To chirp away a life of praise.

Then spread each wing,

Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,
And join the choirs that sing

In yon blue dome not reared with hands.

Above the crowd,

On upward wings could I but fly,
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud,
And seek the stars that gem the sky.

"Twere heaven indeed,

Through fields of trackless light to soar,
On nature's charms to feed,
And nature's own great God adore.

Death of an Infant.-MRS. SIGOURNEY.

DEATH found strange beauty on that cherub brow, And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose

On cheek and lip; he touched the veins with ice,
And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes
There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence
Alone can wear.

With ruthless haste, he bound

The silken fringes of their curtaining lids
Forever. There had been a murmuring sound,
With which the babe would claim its mother's ear,
Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set
His seal of silence. But there beamed a smile
So fixed and holy from that marble brow,-
Death gazed, and left it there ;-he dared not steal
The signet-ring of Heaven.

Burns.-F. G. HALLECK.

THE memory of Burns-a name

That calls, when brimmed her festal cup,

A nation's glory, and her shame,

In silent sadness up.

A nation's glory-be the rest

Forgot-she's canonized his mind:

And it is joy to speak the best

We may of human kind.

I've stood beside the cottage bed

Where the bard-peasant first drew breath, A straw-thatched roof above his head, A straw-wrought couch beneath.

And I have stood beside the pile,

His monument--that tells to Heaven
The homage of earth's proudest isle
To that bard-peasant given.

There have been loftier themes than his,

And longer scrolls, and louder lyres, And lays lit up with Poesy's

Purer and holier fires.

Yet read the names that know not death,-
Few nobler ones than Burns are there,
And few have won a greener wreath

Than that which binds his hair.

His is that language of the heart,

In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek;

And his, that music, to whose tone
The common pulse of man keeps time,
In cot or castle's mirth or moan,

In cold or sunny clime.

What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed, What wild vows falter on the tongue, When "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," Or "Auld lang Syne" is sung!

Pure hopes, that lift the soul above,

Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise,
And dreams of youth, and truth, and love,
With " Logan's" banks and braes.

And when he breathes his master-lay
Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall,.

All passions in our frames of clay
Come thronging at his call."

Imagination's world of air,

And our own world, its gloom and glee,
Wit, pathos, poetry, are there,
And death's sublimity.

Praise to the bard!-His words are driven,
Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown,
Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven,
The birds of fame have flown.

Praise to the man!-A nation stood
Beside his coffin with wet eyes,
Her brave, her beautiful, her good,
As when a loved one dies.

And still, as on his funeral day,

Men stand his cold earth-couch around,

With the mute homage that we pay
To consecrated ground.

And consecrated ground it is,

The last, the hallowed home of one

Who lives upon all memories,
Though with the buried gone.

Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines,
Shrines to no code or creed confined,—

The Delphian vales, the Palestines,
The Meccas of the mind.

Sages, with Wisdom's garland wreathed,
Crowned kings, and mitred priests of power,
And warriors, with their bright swords sheathed,
The mightiest of the hour;

And lowlier names, whose humble home
Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star,-

Are there-o'er wave and mountain come,
From countries near and far;

Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have pressed

The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand,

Or trod the piled leaves of the West,
My own green forest-land.