How oft I've seen, at early dawn,
Or twilight's quiet hour,
The swallows, in their joyous glee
Come darting round thy tower,
As if, with thee, to hail the sun
And catch his earliest light,
And offer ye the morn's salute,
Or bid ye both,-good night.

And when, around thee or above,
No breath of air has stirred,
Thou seem'st to watch the circling flight
Of each free, happy bird,

Till after twittering round thy head

In many a mazy track,

The whole delighted company

Have settled on thy back.

Then, if perchance amidst their mirth,
A gentle breeze has sprung,
And prompt to mark its first approach,
Thy eager form hath swung,

I've thought I almost heard thee say,

As far aloft they flew,

"Now all away!-here ends our play,

For I have work to do!"

Men slander thee, my honest friend,

And call thee in their pride,

An emblem of their fickleness,

Thou ever faithful guide.

Each weak, unstable human mind
A "weathercock" they call;
And thus, unthinkingly, mankind
Abuse thee, one and all.

They have no right to make thy name
A by-word for their deeds :-

They change their friends, their principles,
Their fashions, and their creeds;

Whilst thou hast ne'er, like them, been known Thus causelessly to range;

But when thou changest sides, canst give

Good reason for the change.

Thou, like some lofty soul, whose course
The thoughtless oft condemn,

Art touched by many airs from heaven
Which never breathe on them,-

And moved by many impulses

Which they do never know,

Who, 'round their earth-bound circles, plod

The dusty paths below.

Through one more dark and cheerless night

Thou well hast kept thy trust,

And now in glory o'er thy head

The morning light has burst.

And unto Earth's true watcher, thus,

When his dark hours have passed, Will come "the day-spring from on high," To cheer his path at last.

Bright symbol of fidelity,

Still may I think of thee:

And may the lesson thou dost teach

Be never lost on me ;

But still, in sun-shine or in storm,

Whatever task is mine,

May I be faithful to my trust

As thou hast been to thine.

THE POET.

BY MRS. SOPHIA LITTLE.

He is happy; not that fame
Giveth him a glorious name;
For the world's applause is vain,
Lost and won with little pain:
But a sense is in his spirit,

Which no vulgar minds inherit;

A second sight of soul which sees

Into Nature's mysteries.

Place him by the ocean's side,

When the waters dash with pride;

With their wild and awful roll
Deep communes his lifted soul.
Now let the sudden tempest come
From its cloudy Eastern home;
Let the thunder's fearful shocks
Break among the dark rough rocks,
And lightning, as the waves aspire,
Crown them with a wreath of fire;
Let the wind with sullen breath
Seem to breathe a dirge of death:
Thou may'st feel thy cheek turn pale;
But he that looks within the veil,

The Bard, high priest at Nature's shrine,
Trembles with a warmth divine.

His heaving breast, his kindling eye,
His brow's expanding majesty,

Show that the spirit of his thought

Hath Nature's inspiration caught.

Now place him in a gentle scene,
'Neath an autumn sky serene;
Let some hamlet skirt his way,
Gleaming in the fading day;
Let him hear the distant low
Of the herds that homeward go;
Let him catch, as o'er it floats,
The music of the robin's notes,

As softly sinks upon its nest

He, of birds the kindliest ;

Let him catch from yonder nook

The murmur of the minstrel brook ;
The stones that fain would check its way
It leapeth o'er with purpose gay,
Or only lingers for a time,

To draw from them a merrier chime;
E'en as a gay and gentle mind,
Though rough breaks in life it find,
Passeth by as 'twere not so,

Or draws sweet uses out of woe;
The scene doth on his soul impress
Its glory and its loveliness.

Now place him in some festal hall,
The merry band of minstrels call,
Banish sorrow, pain, and care,

Let graceful sprightly youth be there,
Beauty, with her jewelled zone

And sparkling drapery round her thrown,

Beauty, who surest aims her glance,

When the free motion of the dance

All her varied charms hath stirred,

As the plumage of a bird

Shows brightest when in air he springs,
Spreading forth his sunny wings.
Place the bard in scenes like this,

E'en here he knows no common bliss.