And the skies that once were to me so blue,
Now bend above with a darker hue:

And yet I may wander in fancy back,

At Memory's call, to my childhood's track,

And the fount of Thought hath been deeply stirred By the passing note of a summer bird.

It was but the rush of the autumn wind,
But it left a spell of the past behind,
And I was abroad with my brothers twain
In the tangled paths of the wood again:
Where the leaves were rustling beneath our feet,
And the merry shout of our gleesome mood
Was echoed far in the solitude,

As we caught the prize which a kindly breeze
Sent down in a shower from the chestnut-trees.

Oh! a weary time hath passed away
Since my brothers were out by my side at play;
A weary time, with its weight of care,

And its toil in the city's crowded air,
And its pining wish for the hill-tops high;
For the laughing stream and the clear blue sky;
For the shaded dell, and the leafy halls
Of the old green wood where the sunlight falls.

But I see the haunts of my early days—

The old green wood where the sunshine plays,
And the flashing stream in its course of light,
And the hill-tops high, and the sky so bright,
And the silent depths of the shaded dell,
Where the twilight shadows at noonday fell;
And the mighty charm which hath conquered these
Is naught, save a rush of the autumn breeze.

It was but a violet's faint perfume,

But it bore me back to a quiet room,

Where a gentle girl in the spring-time gay

Was breathing her fair young life

away,

Whose light through the rose-hued curtains fell,
And tinted her cheek like the ocean-shell;
And the southern breeze on its fragrant wings
Stole in with its tale of all lovely things;

Where Love watched on through the long, long hours,
And Friendship came with its gift of flowers;
And Death drew near with a stealthy tread,
And lightly pillowed in dust her head,

And sealed up gently the lids so fair,

And damped the brow with its clustering hair,
And left the maiden in slumber deep,

To waken no more from that tranquil sleep.

Then we laid the flower her hand had pressed

To wither and die on her gentle breast;
And back to the shade of that quiet room
I go with the violet's faint perfume.

Edward Coates Pinkney.

ITALY.

KNOW'ST thou the land which lovers ought to choose?

Like blessings there descend the sparkling dews;

In gleaming streams the crystal rivers run,

The purple vintage clusters in the sun;
Odours of flowers haunt the balmy breeze,

Rich fruits hang high upon the verdant trees;

And vivid blossoms gem the shady groves,

Where bright-plumed birds discourse their careless loves. Beloved!-speed we from this sullen strand,

Until thy light feet press that green shore's yellow sand.

Look seaward thence, and naught shall meet thine eye
But fairy isles, like paintings on the sky;
And, flying fast and free before the gale,
The gaudy vessel with its glancing sail;
And waters glittering in the glare of noon,
Or touched with silver by the stars and moon,
Or flecked with broken lines of crimson light,
When the far fisher's fire affronts the night.
Lovely as loved! toward that smiling shore
Bear we our household gods, to fix forever more.

It looks a dimple on the face of Earth,
The seal of Beauty, and the shrine of Mirth;
Nature is delicate and graceful there,

The place's Genius, feminine and fair;

The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud;
The air seems never to have borne a cloud,
Save where volcanoes send to heaven their curled
And solemn smokes, like altars of the world.
Thrice beautiful!—to that delightful spot
Carry our married hearts, and be all pain forgot.

There Art, too, shows, when Nature's beauty palls,
Her sculptured marbles, and her pictured walls;
And there are forms in which they both conspire
To whisper themes that know not how to tire;
The speaking ruins, in that gentle clime,
Have but been hallowed by the hand of Time,

And each can mutely prompt some thought of flameThe meanest stone is not without a name.

Then come, beloved!—hasten o'er the sea, To build our happy hearth in blooming Italy.

Rev. George W. Bethune, D. D.

I

NIGHT STUDY.

AM alone; and yet

In the still solitude there is a rush

Around me, as were met

A crowd of viewless wings; I hear a gush
Of uttered harmonies-heaven meeting earth,
Making it to rejoice with holy mirth.

Ye winged Mysteries,

Sweeping before my spirit's conscious eye,
Beckoning me to arise,

And go forth from my very self, and fly
With you far in the unknown, unseen immense
Of worlds beyond our sphere-what are ye? whence?

Ye eloquent Voices,

Now soft as breathings of a distant flute,
Now strong as when rejoices

The trumpet in the victory and pursuit ;

Strange are ye, yet familiar, as ye call

My soul to wake from earth's sense and its thrall.

With more than natural light-ye are the good
The wise departed-ye

Are come from heaven to claim your brotherhood
With mortal brother, struggling in the strife

And chains, which once were yours in this sad life.

Ye hover o'er the page

Ye traced in ancient days with glorious thought
For many a distant age;

Ye love to watch the inspiration caught
From your sublime examples, and so cheer
The fainting student to your high career.

Ye come to nerve the soul,

Like him who near the ATONER stood, when HE, Trembling, saw round him roll

The wrathful portents of Gethsemane,

With courage strong: the promise ye have known And proved, rapt for me from the Eternal throne.

Still keep, oh, keep me near you!

Compass me round with your immortal wings:
Still let my glad soul hear you

Striking your triumphs from your golden strings,
Until with you I mount and join the song,
An angel, like you, mid the white-robed throng.