What time the kindler of the day
Wheels down his occidental way,
'Mid purple clouds, loopholed with white,
Whence issues the imprisoned light
That rushes o'er the East in millions
Of burning rays of Western brilliance;
Which gild the towers with golden faces,
And shadows fling on lower places
Of each obstructing tree and wall
Before the painting beams that fall,
Which far away, with silver tide,
Flow on the blue of Cheviot's side,
And bring the greenery into bloom
A moment 'mid the parted gloom-
O then that is the time for me
To bow my head most reverently,
And 'midst the twilight's placid calm,
To sing to God my evening psalm!
TO A RAINDROP.

Hail! jewel pendant on the grassy blade,
Now dimly seen amid a transient shade,
Anon resplendent, like a bridal maid
Wed by the wind,

Thou tremblest at his kisses half afraid,
And half inclined !

How many hues of beauty charm thy face!
For there successive rays each other chase;
The ruby now, the sapphire next we trace.
The chrysolite

Supplants the emerald, rich in vernal grace,
And dear to sight.

O fairy creature! whither hast thou come ?
Was the Atlantic once thy stormy home?
Or didst thou through the mild Pacific roam
'Mong coral isles,

And thence ascend to the ethereal dome

With saintly smiles?

Hast thou, in clouds of richest colour blended,
On rising suns and setting suns attended?
Or hast thou shone in bars of beauty splendid
I' the Rainbow's robe?

Or hast thou in a misty chariot wended

Around the globe?

Alas! thou answereth not, thou brilliant mute; Thou shinest on in silence absolute;

The wanderings of thy restless silver foot

Thou canst not tell;

And soon thou shalt resume thy pilgrim route, Nor sigh farewell!

GRASS.

Thou emerald loveliness, that paint'st the face
Of the broad earth, as azure paints the sky,
Thou printest with thy footsteps every place
From the soft meadow to the mountain high ;
Not the drudged highway lacks thy tender grace,
For there thou smilest, with a sun-lit eye,
Round harebells tolling in the wind, and daisies
Nestling like birds, and cottar's cow that grazes.

Thou hast a beautiful old Saxon name,

Which melts i' the mouth like honey from the comb,
Which, like a star, sheds down a golden flame,
That lights the mind with images of home:
The sloping bank, the level green, the dame
Bleaching her linen under the blue dome;
The croft where geese and gander stately stroll,
The paddock where the brown mare tends her foal.

Thou queen'st it in the meadow, where the kine
Or feed from thy fresh basket dewed with morn,
Or on thy velvet carpet calm recline,

Shewing the massive front and curved horn,
And patient eye, like crystal dark with wine,
They chew the cud; or sturdily upborne
Above the thirsty pail, they yield the stream,
Which Midas-handed hours touch into golden cream.
Thou art a fairy round the greenwood tree,
With moonlight shadows to thy bosom prest;
While timid, soft-toned winds sing lullaby,
Themselves sinking among the leaves to rest.
Around the fountain bubbling gleefully,
As with an infant's instinct for the breast,
Thou comest, girdling it with greenery,
The richest emerald in the sylvan scenery.

How rich art thou in gold and silver wealth!
Bright gems of beauty sparkle in thy crown;
Green mosses run their hands with child-like stealth
In thine, and hide behind thy matron gown.

Thou bloom'st the faded cheek with rose-leafed health,
Whene'er the sick face from the smoky town
Beholds thy kingcups, and thy pea-green mosses,
And daisies sunning forth their orange bosses.

The all melodious lark, who pours the shower
Of copious anthem from the sapphire cope,
Sings downward to his love, in thy green bower
Nursing the callow minstrels of their hope,
Beneath the sheltering pennons of thy power,
Upon the fallow-leas, or on the slope,

Which, like a stung lip, bulges on the mead
Where April lambs delight to frisk and feed.
How lovely on the mountains are thy feet,
Climbing to reach the kisses of the skies,
To drain the crystal cloudlet's chalice sweet,
And sun thy brow in virgin morning's rise;
When hill to hill rings with the woolly bleat,
And the lone, plaided, staff-girt shepherd eyes
His witless charge, and whistles from his heel
His dog, to scare the wanderers from the commonweal!
How charming when the morning round her girds
Her fulgent robes, and the unnumbered dews
Sparkle upon thy blades, like humming-birds,
In dazzling lustre of prismatic hues !
Enchanting sight! as if the molten shreds

Of some great rainbow's yellows, pinks, and blues,
Had kindled all the tops of thy green spires,
With endless lamps of many-coloured fires.

Rise, from thy yellow tomb, green form of Spring;
Arise and paint the mountain and the vale.
O haste! and in thy nursing bosom bring
The silver daisy and the primrose pale.

The blades will spring, the merry birds will sing;
"Tis this that cheers us mid December's gale,
While the lank woods and the all smileless earth
Present no sign of leaf, or snowdrop's birth.

JESSIE M. E. SAXBY.

person

E trust that a special interest will be taken by our readers in the sketches of the following writers, as they furnish a few details of those whose works are in our hands, and with whose opinions we may be familiar, while of their ality we know next to nothing. We have always considered that any book which throws light upon the personal surroundings of our more popular living authors should be welcome. To provide such has been one of the principal objects of the present work,

and we have endeavoured, in all the personal details here given, to present them-though of necessity briefly--in such a manner as, in a measure, to possess the fascination which somehow or other belongs to all literature that tells us something about the more talented and conspicuous men and women of our own day. A recent writer has said:- "It not unfrequently happens that we know less of our contemporaries than we know of the generations that have preceded us." Most people could tell you more about Chaucer and Milton than they can of Tennyson or Mrs Oliphant, and until very recently we knew little of George Elliot or Thomas Carlyle.

The subject of our present sketch has for some years been widely known as the author of a number` of volumes, and a a writer of tales and essays in several of our most popular magazines and periodicals. These, in delineation of character and construction, are remarkably powerful and careful, and she always gives evidence of the possession of thought and purpose in abundance. Her characters have the effect of studies from life, and without being avowedly humorous or sentimental, she sketches the woes of the masses, the aims and the labours of men and women, with true sympathy and skill. We have ever found in the tales of Mrs Saxby-so realistic and instructive-much more than a mere story, while there is never less than a good

one.

Jessie M. Saxby was born in Shetland-that land of romance-of parents exceptionally talented. Her mother being a literary woman, and her father a scientific man, she could not help being at once romantic, literary, and scientific. In a recent number of Chambers's Journal we find a delightful article, entitled "The Home of a Naturalist," from the pen, we believe, of our poet, and describing her childhood's home. Here is a glimpse of life in the old

home :- "The house-pets knew, one and all, that the dinner-bell was a call to meals, and would flock from various parts of the house or fields to the diningroom door and window. Some were allowed to come into the room. More than once, a feminine chorus of remonstrance was raised by the ladies of the family, and the result was temporary banishment of the animals at meal-times; but the edict was seldom carried into force for more than a week, as even those who had been loudest in requiring their absence, missed their dependents so much, that tacit permission for their recall was given. A tax was levied upon every plate and dish before it left the table, a process which the interested animals naturally regarded as the great event of the hour. All dry crusts and slices of bread went into the naturalist's pockets; and what pockets they were! They bulged out on each side; and their owner, when wandering about his fields, was usually attended by a motley throng of those who knew well what those pockets contained. Running about his feet after the manner of Skye terriers was Rough, who had lost one eye, and never could bear the smallest allusion to his misfortune. Dogs do not parade their infirmities, nor will their self-respect permit them to claim either charity or indulgence because of misfortune. One or two cats stealthily kept pace with their master's step, seemingly unconcerned in all around, but very wide awake internally. An ox with large tender eyes would appeal for a caress; while a pony would be shoving its frowzy brow against its master's shoulder, munching crusts with great satisfaction. Dickhalyer, a splendid gamecock, usually stalked dignified by the naturalist's side, as one who thought, and in his own way said: 'You and I are reasoning beings, and must set an example of decorum to the lower animals.' A flock of pigeons would hover over his head, sometimes alighting on any