And yet, if haply, when thou ’rt gone, my lonely heart

should yearn,

Can the hand which casts thee from it

now,

command thee to return ?

Return ! alas ! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do, When thcu, who wert his all of joy, hast vanish'd from

his view ? When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the

gathering tears, Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirage, ap

pears.
Slow and unmounted will I roam,

with
weary

foot alone, Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne

me on! And sitting down by the green well, I'll pause and sadly

think, 'Twas here he bow'd his glossy neck when last I saw him

drink! When last I saw thee drink! Away! the fever'd dream

is o'er; I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no

more! They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong; They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long. Who said that I had given thee up? who said that thou

wert sold ? 'Tis false—'tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back

their gold. Thus, thus I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant

plains, Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!

MARY HOWITT,

SUMMER SONG OF THE STRAWBERRY GIRL. It is summer! it is summer! how beautiful looks! There is sunshine on the old gray hills, and sunshine on

the brooks ; A singing

bird on every bough, soft perfumes on the air, A happy smile on each young lip, and gladness everywhere. Oh, is it not a pleasant thing to wander through the woods, To look upon the painted flowers, and watch the opening

buds; Or, seated in the deep cool shade at some tall ash-tree's root, To fill my little basket with the sweet and scented fruit ? They tell me that my father's poor—that is no grief to me, When such a blue and brilliant sky my upturn'd eye can see; They tell me, too, that richer girls can sport with toy and gem; It may be so—and yet, methinks, I do not envy them. When forth I go upon my way, a thousand toys are mine, The cluster of dark violets, the wreaths of the wild vine; My jewels are the primrose pale, the bind-weed, and the rose; And show me any courtly gem more beautiful than those. And then the fruit, the glowing fruit, how sweet the scent

it breathes ! I love to see its crimson cheek rest on the bright green

leaves ! Summer's own gift of luxury, in which the poor may share, The wild-wood fruit my eager eye is seeking everywhere. Oh, summer is a pleasant time, with all its svunds and

sightsIts dewy mornings, balmy eves, and tranquil calm delights. I sigh when first I see the leaves fall yellow on the plain; And all the winter long I sing—Sweet summer, come again!

BIRDS IN SUMMER.

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Flitting about in each leafy tree !
In the leafy trees so broad and tall,
Like a green and beautiful palace-hall,
With its airy chambers, light and boon,
That open to sun, and stars, and moon;
That open to the bright blue sky,
And the frolicsome winds, as they wander by!

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Skimming about on the breezy sea!
Cresting the billows like silvery foam,
And then wheeling away to its cliff-built home!
What joy it must be to sail, upborne
By a strong free wing, through a rosy morn,
To meet the young sun, face to face,
And pierce, like a shaft, the boundless space !

To pass through the bowers of the silvery cloud,
And to sing in the thunder-halls aloud;
To spread out the wings for a wild free flight
With the upper cloud-winds,—oh, what delight !
Oh, what would I give, like a bird to go
Right on through the arch of the sunlit bow,
And to see how the water-drops are kiss'd
Into green, and yellow, and amethyst !

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Wherever it listeth there to flee !
To go, when a joyful fancy calls,
Dashing adown 'mong the waterfalls;

Then wheeling about, with its mates at play,
Above, and below, and among the spray,
Hither and thither, with screams as wild
As the laughing mirth of a rosy

child !

What a joy it must be, like a living breeze,
To flutter about ’mong the flowering trees;
Lightly, to soar, and to see beneath
The wastes of the blossoming purple heath,
And the yellow furze, like fields of gold,
That gladden some fairy region old.
On mountain tops, on the billowy sea,
On the leafy stems of the forest tree,
How pleasant the life of a bird must be !

ELIZA COOK,

SUNSHINE.

Who loveth not the sunshine ? oh! who loveth not the

bright And blessed mercy of His smile, who said, “ Let there be

light ?" Who lifteth not his face to meet the rich and glowing beam? Who dwelleth not with miser eyes upon such golden stream? Let those who will accord their song to hail the revel blaze That only comes where feasting reigns and courtly gallants

gaze ! But the sweet and merry sunshine is a braver theme to sing, For it kindles round the peasant while it bursts above the

king.

We hear young voices round us now swell loud in eager joy,
We're jostled by the tiny child, and sturdy, romping boy ;
In city street and hamlet path, we see blithe forms arise;
And childhood's April life comes forth as glad as April skies.
Oh! what can be the magic lure that beckons them abroad
To sport upon the grassy plain, or tread the dusty road ?
'Tis the bright and merry sunshine that has called them

out to play, And scattered them, like busy bees, all humming in our

way.

We see old age and poverty forsake the fireside chair,
And leave a narrow cheerless home to taste the vernal air;
The winter hours were long to him who had no spice-

warm'd cup,

No bed of down to nestle in, no furs to wrap

him

up. But now he loiters ’mid the crowd, and leans upon

his staff, He gossips with his lowly friends, and joins the children's

laugh. 'Tis the bright and merry sunshine that has led the old

man out, To hear once more the Babel roar, and wander round about.

There's a sunshine that is brighter, that is warmer e'en

than this; That spreadeth round a stronger gleam, and sheds a deeper

bliss;

That gilds whate'er it touches with a lustre all its own,
As brilliant on the cottage porch as on Assyria's throne.
It gloweth in the human soul, it passeth not away;
And dark and lonely is the heart that never felt its ray;
'Tis the sweet and merry sunshine of Affection's gentle light,
That never wears a sullen cloud, and fadeth not in night.