away and far,

My spirit turns to thee;

I love thee as men love a star,

The brightest where a thousand are,
Sadly and silently;

With love unstained by hopes or fears,

Too deep for words, too pure for tears!

My heart is tutored not to weep;
Calm, like the calm of even,

Where grief lies hushed, but not asleep,
Hallows the hours I love to keep

For only thee and heaven;

Too far and fair to aid the birth

Of thoughts that have a taint of earth!

And yet the days for ever gone,

When thou wert as a bird,

Living 'mid flowers and leaves alone,

And singing in so soft a tone

As I never since have heard,

Will make me grieve that birds, and things So beautiful, have ever wings!

And there are hours in the lonely night,
When I seem to hear thy calls,

Faint as the echoes of far delight,

And dreamy and sad as the sighing flight

Of distant waterfalls;

And then my vow was hard to keep,

For it were a joy, indeed, to weep!

For I feel, as men feel when moonlight falls
Amid old cathedral aisles;

Or the wind plays, sadly, along the walls
Of lonely and forsaken halls,

That we knew in their day of smiles;

Or as one who hears, amid foreign flowers,
A tune he had learned in his mother's bowers.

But I may not, and I dare not weep,
Lest the vision pass away,

And the vigils that I love to keep

Be broken up, by the fevered sleep
That leaves me - with the day—

Like one who has travelled far to the spot
Where his home should be - - and finds it not!

Yet then, like the incense of many flowers,

Rise pleasant thoughts to me;

For I know, from thy dwelling in eastern bowers, That thy spirit has come, in those silent hours,

To meet me over the sea;

And I feel in my soul, the fadeless truth

Of her whom I loved in early youth.

Like hidden streams, whose quiet tone

Is unheard in the garish day,

That utter a music all their own,

When the night-dew falls, and the lady moon
Looks out to hear them play,-

I knew not half thy gentle worth,
Till grief drew all its music forth.

We shall not meet on earth again!.
And I would have it so;

For, they tell me that the cloud of pain
Has flung its shadows o'er thy brain,
And touched thy looks with woe;

And I have heard that storm and shower
Have dimmed thy lovliness, my flower!

Just as thou wert, in those blessed years
When we were, both, too young for fears
That we should ever part;

And I would not aught should mar the spell,
The picture nursed so long and well!

To join thee on that shore

Where thou-I know-wilt look for me,

And I, for ever, be with thee!

THE CHINA JUG.

MISS MITFORD.

ONE of the prettiest rustic dwellings in our pretty neighborhood, is the picturesque farm-house which stands on the edge of Wokefield Common, so completely in a bottom, that the passengers who traverse the high road see indeed the smoke from the chimneys floating like a vapor over the woody hill which forms the back ground, but cannot even catch a glimpse of the roof, so high does the turfy common rise above it; whilst so steeply does the ground decline to the door, that it seems as if no animal less accustomed to tread the hill-side than a goat or a chamois could venture to descend the narrow foot-path which winds round the declivity, and forms the nearest way to the village. The cart-track, thridding the mazes of the hills, leads to the house by a far longer but very beautiful road; the smooth fine turf of the Common varied by large tufts of furze and broom rising in an abrupt bank on one side, on the other a narrow, well timbered valley, bordered by hanging woods, and terminated by a large

sheet of water, close beside which stands the farm, a low, irregular cottage snugly thatched, and its different out-buildings, all on the smallest scale, but giving the air of comfort and habitation to the spot that nothing can so thoroughly convey as an English barn-yard with its complement of cows, pigs, horses, chickens, and children.

One part of the way thither is singularly beautiful. It is where a bright and sparkling spring has formed itself into a clear pond in a deep broken hollow by the road-side: the bank all around covered with rich grass, and descending in unequal terraces, to the pool: whilst on every side around it, and at different heights stand ten or twelve noble elms, casting their green shadows mixed with the light clouds and the blue summer sky on the calm and glassy water, and giving, (especially, when the evening sun lights up the little grove, causing the rugged trunks to shine like gold, and the pendent leaves to glitter like the burnished wings of the rose beetle,) a sort of pillard and columnar dignity to the scene.

Seldom, too, would that fountain, famous for the purity and sweetness of its waters, be without some figure suited to the landscape; child, woman, or country girl, leaning from the plank extended over the spring, to fill her pitcher, or returning with it, supported by one arm on her head, recalling all classical and pastoral images, the beautiful sculptures of Greece, the poetry of Homer and of Sophocles, and even more than these,