THE POOR MAN'S SONG.

Translated from the German of UHLAND, by Mr. R. M. MILNES, M.P. It cannot fail to please all wholesome tastes. There is a charming simplicity of expression, not altogether lost in the translation, although so difficult to be preserved; and the simplicity and naturalness (the coining of a required word must be excused) of the thoughts will be recognised by every reader.

A POOR man, poorer none, am I,
And walk the world alone,
Yet do I call a spirit free

And cheerful heart my own.

A gleesome child I play'd about
My dear, dear parents' hearth,
But grief has fallen upon my path
Since they are laid in earth.

I see rich gardens round me bloom,
I see the golden grain;

My path is bare and barren all,
And trod with toil and pain.

And yet, though sick at heart, I'll stand
Where happy faces throng,
And wish good-morrow heartily
To all that pass along.

O bounteous God, Thou leavest me not
To comfortless despair;

There comes a gentle balm from heaven
For every child of care.

Still in each dell thy sacred house
Points mutely to the sky,

The organ and the choral song
Arrest each passer by.

Still shine the sun, the moon, the stars,

With blessing even on me,

And when the evening bell rings out,
Then, Lord, I speak with Thee.

One day shall to the good disclose
Thy halls of joy and rest:
Then in my wedding robes even I
Shall seat me as thy guest.

THE TIME FOR PRAYER.

We cut from a newspaper, where it is stated to be from an unknown hand, the following beautiful poem. Surely it must be the composition of some practised writer.

WHEN is the time for prayer?

With the first beams that light the morning sky,
Ere for the toils of day thou dost prepare,
Lift up thy thoughts on high;

Commend thy loved ones to His watchful care!—
Morn is the time for prayer!

And in the noontide hour,

If worn by toil or by sad cares opprest,
Then unto God thy spirit's sorrow pour,
And He will give thee rest :-

Thy voice shall reach Him through the fields of air :-
Noon is the time for prayer!

When the bright sun hath set,—

Whilst yet eve's glowing colours deck the skies ;-
When with the loved, at home, again thou'st met,
Then let thy prayer arise

For those who in thy joys and sorrows share :-
Eve is the time for prayer!

And when the stars come forth,

When to the trusting heart sweet hopes are given,
And the deep stillness of the hour gives birth

To pure bright dreams of heaven,

Kneel to thy God-ask strength, life's ills to bear :—
Night is the time for prayer!

When is the time for prayer?

In every hour, while life is spared to thee-
In crowds or solitude-in joy or care-

Thy thoughts should heavenward flee.

At home-at morn and eve-with loved ones there,
Bend thou the knee in prayer!

THE WIND AND LEAF, OR ELOPEMENT.

The following pretty Sonnet is taken from Tait's Magazine.
Oh listen, ladies, and I'll tell you brief,

A touching tale, and true as history.

The Wind and Leaf held dalliance-" Gentle leaf,"
Began the wind, "awake and fly with me!
For thee I pass'd the beds where roses are;

And though their whispers fragrant woo'd my stay
And every little bud shone like a star,

I thought on thee-arise and come away!
Thy sisters dark are sleeping in the dew,

I would not rouse their coldness with a sigh;
But thou the beautiful, and I the true,

Were meant for common passion-let us fly."

The leaf complied, and ere a day was done,
Was flung aside-a thing to tread upon.

Brilliants.

THE MOON.

THE cold chaste Moon, the Queen of Heaven's bright isles,
Who makes all beautiful on which she smiles!
That wandering shrine of soft, yet icy flame,
Which ever is transform'd, yet still the same,
And warms, but not illumines.

SHELLEY.

LIBRARY.

THE place that does

Contain my books-the best companions-is

To me a glorious court, where hourly I

Converse with the old sages and philosophers;

And sometimes, for variety, I confer

With kings and emperors, and weigh their counsels, Calling their victories, if unjustly got,

Unto a strict account; and, in my fancy,

Deface their ill-placed statues.

FLETCHER.

LETTERS.

RELICS of love and life's enchanted spring!

NATURE.

A. WATTS.

THE Volume of the world

Is legible alone to those who use

The interlinear version of the light,

Which is the Spirit's, and given within ourselves.

NIGHT.

Earth

BAYLEY.

Looks as if lull'd upon an angel's lap.

Into a breathless dewy sleep,

The lakelet, now no longer vex'd with gusts,
Replaces on her breast the pictured moon,
Pearl'd round with stars.

BAYLEY.

ETERNITY.

ETERNITY stands always fronting God;
A stern colossal image, with blind eyes,
And grand dim lips, that murmur evermore
God, God, God !""

E. B. BROWNING.

MEMORY.

So have I seen the cloud-rack, fast and free,
Come thronging onward from the distant sea,
Along the hill-tops, till the rising sheen

Of morn had spread their parted woof between,
And laugh'd away the masses dark and dull,
Into a radiance glad and beautiful—
E'en so the glorious past came floating by,
O'er the dark chambers of his Memory.

SHARPIE.

THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA.

POPE described the following lines as the finest he had ever read in the English language.

WHEN Egypt's king God's chosen tribe pursued,
In crystal walls the admiring waters stood:

When through the desert wild they took their way, The rocks relented and poured forth a sea:

What limit can Almighty goodness know

When seas can harden and when rocks can flow?

UNKNOWN.

CHRIST TURNING THE WATER INTO WINE.

THE Conscious water saw its God and blush'd.

WOMAN'S DEVOTION.

DRYDEN.

SUCH was this daughter of the Southern seas,
Herself a billow in her energies,

To bear the bark of other's happiness,
Nor feel a sorrow till their joy grew less.

BYRON.

PURITY.

YET was there light around her brow,
A holiness in those dark eyes,

Which show'd, though wandering earthward now,
Her spirit's home was in the skies.

Yes! for a spirit pure as hers

Is always pure, e'en when it errs,

As sunshine broken in the rill,

Though turn'd astray, is sunshine still."

MOORE.

OUR MOTHER EARTH.

NOT on a path of reprobation runs

The trembling earth. God's eye doth follow her
With far more love than doth her maid, the moon.
Speak no harsh words of earth: she is our mother,
And few of us, her sons, who have not added
A wrinkle to her brow. She gave us birth;
We drew our nurture from her ample breast;
And there is coming for us both an hour
When we shall pray that she will ope her arms
And take us back again

ALEXANDER SMITH.