And bids the yielding heart expand
In love's delicious ecstasy.

Fair Star! though I be doomed to prove
That rapture's tears are mixed with pain,
Ah, still I feel 'tis sweet to love!
But sweeter to be loved again.

Allan Cunningham.

Born 1784. Died 1842.

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.

A WET sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,

And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lea.

O for a soft and gentle wind!

I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high;

T

And white waves heaving high, my boys,

The good ship tight and free-
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in hornèd moon,

yon

And lightning in yon cloud;
But hark, the music, mariners!
The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free—
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.

Joanna Baillie.

Born 1762. Died 1851.

THE NEW YEAR'S GIFT.

ALL white hung the bushes o'er Elaw's sweet stream,
And pale from its banks the long icicles gleam;
The first peep of morning just peers through the sky,
And here, at thy door, gentle Mary, am I.

With the dawn of the year, and the dawn of the light, The one that best loves thee stands first in thy sight;

Then welcomed, dear maid, with my gift let me be, A ribbon, a kiss, and a blessing for thee!

Last year, of earth's treasures I gave thee my part,
The new year before it I gave thee my heart;
And now, gentle Mary, I greet thee again,
When only this hand and a blessing remain !

Though time should run on with his sack full of care,
And wrinkle thy cheek, maid, and whiten thy hair,
Yet still on this morn shall my offering be,
A ribbon, a kiss, and a blessing for thee!

Alexander Wilson.

Born 1766. Died 1813.

THE AMERICAN BLUE-BIRD.

WHEN Winter's cold tempests and snows are no more, Green meadows and brown-furrowed fields re-appearing,

The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,

And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering, When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing;

When red grow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing,

O then comes the Blue-bird, the herald of spring!
And hails with his warblings the charms of the

season.

Then loud piping frogs make the marshes to ring;
Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the
weather;

The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,
And spicewood and sassafras budding together;
O then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair!

Your walks border up; sow and plant at your leisure; The Blue-bird will chaunt from his box such an air, That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure.

He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree, The red flowering peach and the apples' sweet blossoms;

He snaps up destroyers wherever they be,

And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms;

He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours,
The worms from their webs, where they riot and

welter;

His song and his services freely are ours,

And all that he asks is in summer a shelter.

The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train, Now searching the furrows,-now mounting to

cheer him ;

The gardener delights in his sweet simple strain,

And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him; The slow lingering school-boys forget they'll be chid,

While gazing intent as he warbles before 'em,

In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red,

That each little loiterer seems to adore him.

When all the gay scenes of the summer are o'er,
And autumn slow enters, so silent and sallow,
And millions of warblers, that charmed us before,
Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow ;
The Blue-bird, forsaken, yet true to his home,

Still lingers, and looks for a milder to-morrow,
Till forced by the horrors of winter to roam,
He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.

While spring's lovely season, serene, dewy, warm,
The green face of earth, and the pure blue of

heaven,

Or love's native music have influence to charm,

Or sympathy's glow to our feelings are given; Still dear to each bosom the Blue-bird shall be ;

His voice, like the thrillings of hope, is a treasure ; For through bleakest storms, if a calm he but see, He comes to remind us of sunshine and pleasure!