THE WATER FALL.

ANONYMOUS.

RUSH on, bold stream! thou sendest up
Brave notes to all the woods around,
When morning beams are gathering fast,
And hushed is every human sound;

I stand beneath the sombre hill,
The stars are dim o'er fount and rill,
And still I hear thy waters play
In welcome music, far away;

Dash on, bold stream! I love the roar
Thou sendest up from rock and shore.

'Tis night in heaven - the rustling leaves
Are whispering of the coming storm.
And thundering down the river's bed,
I see thy lengthened darkling form;
No voices from the vales are heard,
The winds are low-each little bird
Hath sough its quiet, rocking nest,
Folded its wing, and gone to rest,—
And still I hear thy waters play
In welcome music, far away.

Oh! earth hath many a gallant show
Of towering peak and glacier height,
But ne'er beneath the glorious moon,

Hath nature framed a lovelier sight,
Than thy fair tide with diamonds fraught,
When every drop with light is caught,
And o'er the bridge, the village girls
Reflect below their waving curls,
While merrily thy waters play
In welcome music, far away!

BIRTHPLACE OF SHAKSPEARE.

ANONYMOUS.

FROM Warwick Castle, an hour's ride brought me to Stratford-on-Avon. From the "white Lion" Inn I walked down the street to where a rude sign-board over the door of a very old two-story building, bore this inscription: "In this house the immortal Shakspeare was born." I entered, and was at once conducted to the chamber in which, it is said, the poet first drew breath. Its walls are completely covered with the names of pilgrims from all parts of the world, attesting thus the universality of his fame. Amid hundreds of unknown names, the autographs of Walter Scott and Washington Irving were pointed out to Around the room were disposed numerous relics, more or less authentic, such as likenesses of the poet, articles made of wood of the famous mulberry tree, &c. I locked at these, walked back and forth in the apartment, and strove to make it real to myself, that in that room Shakspeare was born; but (shall I confess it?) I was sensible of no inspiring impulse

me.