I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary-kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling!
In the land I'm goin' to :-
They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there,-
But I'll not forget old Ireland,

Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies,—
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side,

And the springin' corn and the bright May morn,
When first you were my bride!

A BROOK.

This was cut from the columns of The Athenæum many years ago. It is a pretty picture, and has some original thoughts.

CHOOSE in the middle wood a small green

nook,

Through whose dim arbours winds a pausing brook,
Now with low chime-now with precipitate shout,
Amid the cool grass idling in and out,
Here in a short laugh let its music die-
There let it with uprisen songs sweep by,
But ever with its voice be blent the rustling
Of edging grass and the unquiet bustling
Of the bold thrushes from the upper sky-
Within its current let the inverted trees
Glow with long chasms-while the capricious breeze
Widens or clasps their counterparts on high-
Through all the day in woodpaths let it flow-
Morning and sultry noon-but when the eve
Dusks the wide heaven above, the hills below,
And wings forlorn among the alders grim,
In busier channels let its waters thrive,
Afar by solitary cotes, appear

The hurrying voices of the pastoral hive,
And see the shepherd hark with sidelong ear!

THE LAND OF DREAMS.

Another promising poet of America is H. M. PARKER, the author of the following, which, with some manifest faults, has a crowd of beauties.

WHERE is the land of dreams?
The land where sleepers see
Those smooth and silent streams
So calm and silvery?
Those trees that are as still

As the shades of trees below,
When they sleep on the lonely hill

In the summer moonlight's glow ?
Where is the land of dreams-Ah! where?
For I would be a dweller there.

There glorious temples shine,

Thick frosted o'er with gems,

Unknown in earthly mine
Or early diadems,
And ever-blooming bowers
In dim and dewy dells,
All formed of light and flowers

And the ocean's glittering shells;
Where such low music floats around
As 'twere the shadow of a sound.

Upon the ocean's shore

Of that resplendent land,
Where the emerald waters pour

Upon a silver sand,

The traveller may stray

With sleep, his silent guide,

And watch the forms that play

Upon that glorious tide,

Dim and faint, as the mists that break,

At sunrise, from a mountain lake.

He may see the Nereids there,
Each in her pearly shell,
With long and dazzling hair,
Float on the ocean's swell;
And hear the rushing sweep

Of the Tritons, as they dash

Into foam the sparkling deep,
Whilst finny monsters flash
And toss upon the sunny sea

To the roar of the sea-god's minstrelsy.

Where is the land of dreams ?—

Where the hearts, that earth divides, May meet like winter streams,

When spring unbinds their tides; Where, for a little space,

Uncheck'd and unreproved,
We gaze upon the face

We have so fondly loved;
And lose awhile the gloom of woe
That shadows our sad love below?

The mariner who goes

From his weary watch on deck, When the midnight billow throws Its shadow o'er the wreck, Forgets awhile the bark,

With her masts all hewn away,
That drifts through storm and dark
Across its pathless way;

And to the Dream-land, fair and far,
Flies from the tempest's sullen jar.

He sees his cottage thatch

By the willow'd river's side,

And the bank, where he would watch
The white sails downward glide,

When the morning mist lay still

On the broad grey river's breast,

And sunrise fringed the hill

As with a golden crest,

And the skylark warbled from his shroud

The thin white summer morning cloud.

Where is that shadowy place

Where the weary horse and hound

Renew the fiery chase

To the bugle's sylvan sound?

Where they brush the dew again

From the clover and the thorn,

While copse and woody glen

Echo the wild, wild horn,

And the pack's glad bay, and the huntsman's cheer,
Fall faint upon the dreamer's ear?

Oh! where is the land where friends
Meet in those silent hours,
When the starlight dew descends
Upon the sleeping flowers?
There the changed, the cold, the dead,
Return, and with them bring
That blessed light that shed

Such joy o'er life's young spring,
As stars, that from the morning skies,
Peep forth again when daylight dies.
Where is the land of dreams-oh! where?
For I would be a dweller there.

SONG IN PRAISE OF SPRING.

What a delightful lyric is this, by BARRY CORNWALL!

WHEN the wind blows

In the sweet rose-tree,
And the cow lows

On the fragrant lea,
And the stream flows

All bright and free,

"Tis not for thee, 'tis not for me;

'Tis not for any one here, I trow:

The gentle wind bloweth,
The happy cow loweth,
The merry stream floweth,
For all below!

O the Spring! the bountiful Spring!
She shineth and smileth on every thing.

Where come the sheep?

To the rich man's moor.
Where cometh sleep?

To the bed that's poor.

Peasants must weep,
And kings endure:

That is a fate that none can cure:
Yet spring doeth all she can, I trow :
She brings the bright hours,
She weaves the sweet flowers,

She dresseth her bowers,

For all below!

O the Spring, &c.

MARIANA IN THE MOATED GRANGE.

Only a true poet could have conveyed and depicted such a vision of perfect desolation as this by TENNYSON.

WITH blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all,
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the peach to the garden wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange,
Unlifted was the clinking latch,

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.

She only said " My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary;
I would that I were dead!"

Her tears fell with the dews at even,

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried,
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.

After the flitting of the bats,

When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"