And watch the distant evening star,

That sparkles in their stream.

"Soon do I hope to wander there;
Why should I toil, and die
Beneath the moisture of the air,
That loads this sultry sky?

The longing heart that feels aright,
Flies far on fancy's wing,

And views each loving face of light,
Where life had its young spring!"

Right, right! then haste thee back again,
While yet 'tis in thy power;
Nor longer know that longing pain

One other transient hour.

All that thou canst have here, for all
Thine anxious toils and tears,

Are but thy earthly wants, and small
Need be man's wants and fears!

Why write ye all the midnight long,-
You of the mental brow?

With philosophic thought to show,

How wrong the world is now.

Or is 't for fame, that vacuous sound!
Which rules each clime of earth-

The laurel wreath round hero bound,

Or he of kingly birth?

Go to the churchyard, linger there,—

See if they dream of fame ;

Even those who fill'd high learning's chair,

And yearn'd to have a name!

Alas! though great their fame may be ;

To them, it nought avails,

Than 'twere by death's oblivious key,

Shut in his darkest pales!

"I write not for the love of fame

Though it is bliss to gain
An honest and distinguish'd name,
Among earth's humble train.

If 'twere not that I love to hold

The sweet inspiring pen,

A second thought is fame,-is gold,

That raises us 'mong men.

"All must have that which keeps the soul

Within its fragile clay,

Some have a half, some have a whole,

And some, alas! they say

Not one division for their need;

So they must daily toil;

And I my fortune fondly speed,
Before the midnight oil."

Thus goes the world-yet he is mad, Who, tottering on the grave,

To see what he can save;

While all the time, relations poor

Are praying he were dead;

That they may all his gold secure,
And dance where he is laid!

But these, of all, are wretched men,
Who, having stores of gold,

Will not relieve the needy, when
They see them tottering, old.
Such ones let me sincerely tell,
To them no power is given,
Of rearing homes of peace in hell,
Nor palaces in heaven.

AN OSSIANIC.

MORNING is bright in the sky. The clouds have hurried home; they no longer travel the air. The halls of heaven echo with music-sweet music offered to the Spring. The fleet-wing'd songsters bound among the trees-happy as hopes in the expectant heart of man, and with celestial gladness welcome the blushing morn. See how the pale Lily hangs its gentle head like a young bride at the altar. The honey Bee is fondly kissing each sweet-lipped flower; each flower that opens at the earliest dawning of day. The earth seems nearer heaven, for the sun has thrown his warm arms around it; it lies bright in his embrace. The flowers arise to hail him: his smile is full of joy, they open their gay eyes and blush in radiant light. The dancing stream breaks o'er its pebbly bed like pearls: its drops are as the dew of night, it journeys downward to the sea. There is

music in its voice, hurry in its step, and gladness in its looks; secretly it circles among the bushy furze, then opening into light, bounds in beauty to the rays of day. It has travelled far, but has gained strength in its journey; there is no weariness in its walk. The rainbow is seen reflected in its breast, as it dashes in spray over the high cliff. The birds stoop down to quench their feathery throats; they cool their yellow bills in its waves, as it rolls along to mingle with the ocean.

All is lovely on the hill. The white-haired goat creeps lazily along. The lambkins bleat. The reindeer bounds in joy. The lofty locks of the dark pines wave slowly in the summer breeze, their aged boughs rejoice in the glory of noon. Come, then, fair-haired daughter of love! Come, thou sunbeam of

my soul! The hills are clad with trees; an arbour is in the woods. The breeze is soft and scented. The mavis sings loud in the leaves. Come, let us wander awhile, far from the busy din of earth; apart from the eye of man.

Sweet is the garden I have planted for thee, light of mine eye! it slopes freely to the south-sun. The walks are laid with pebbles, pure pebbles, polished