And I wished that mine were a lowly lot,
To laugh, and sing as I go;
That gentle things, with loving eyes,

Along my path should glide,
And blossoms in their loveliness

Come nestling to my side.

"I leaped me down: my rainbow robe
Hung shivering to the sight,

And the thrill of freedom gave to me
New impulse of delight.

A joyous welcome the sunshine gave,
The bird and the swaying tree;
The spear-like grass and blossom start
With joy at sight of me.

"The swallow comes with its bit of clay,
When the busy Spring is here,
And twittering bears the moistened gift
A nest on the eaves to rear;
The twinkling feet of flock and herd
Have trodden a path to me,

And the fox and the squirrel come to drink

In the shade of the alder-tree.

"The sunburnt child, with its rounded foot,

Comes hither with me to play,

And I feel the thrill of its lightsome heart
As he dashes the merry spray.
I turn the mill with answering glee,
As the merry spokes go round;
And the gray rock takes the echo up,
Rejoicing in the sound.

"The old man bathes his scattered locks,
And drops me a silent tear—
For he sees a wrinkled, careworn face
Look up from the waters clear.
Then I sing in his ear the very song
He heard in years gone by;
The old man's heart is glad again,
And a joy lights up his eye."
Enough, enough, thou homily Brook!
I'll treasure thy teachings well,
And I will yield a heartfelt tear
Thy crystal drops to swell;
Will bear, like thee, a kindly love
For the lowly things of earth,
Remembering still that high and pure
Is the home of the spirit's birth.

Anna Cora Mowatt (Ritchie).

TIME.

AY, rail not at Time, though a tyrant he be,

NAY,

And say not he cometh, colossal in might,

Our beauty to ravish, put Pleasure to flight,

And pluck away friends, e'en as leaves from the tree;

And say not Love's torch, which like VESTA's should burn, The cold breath of Time soon to ashes will turn.

You call Time a robber? Nay, he is not so: While Beauty's fair temple he rudely despoils, The mind to enrich with its plunder he toils;

And, sowed in his furrows, doth wisdom not grow?

The magnet mid stars points the north still to view;
So Time, 'mong our friends, e'er discloses the true.

Though cares then should gather, as pleasures flee by, Though Time from thy features the charm steal away, He'll dim too mine eye, lest it see them decay;

And sorrows we've shared will knit closer Love's tie: Then I'll laugh at old Time, and at all he can do— For he'll rob me in vain, if he leave me but you!

ON A LOCK OF MY MOTHER'S HAIR.

HOSE the eyes thou erst didst shade,

WHO

Down what bosom hast thou rolled?

O'er what cheek unchidden played,

Tress of mingled brown and gold!
Round what brow, say, didst thou twine?
Angel-mother, it was thine!

Cold the brow that wore this braid,

Pale the cheek this bright lock pressed,

Dim the eyes it loved to shade,
Still the ever-gentle breast-
All that bosom's struggles past,
When it held this ringlet last.

In that happy home above,

Where all perfect joy hath birth,
Thou dispensest good and love,
Mother, as thou didst on earth;
And, though distant seems that sphere,
Still I feel thee ever near.

Though my longing eye now views
Thy angelic mien no more,
Still thy spirit can infuse

Good in mine, unknown before.
Still the voice, from childhood dear,
Steals upon my raptured ear—

Chiding every wayward deed,

Fondly praising every just;

Whispering soft, when strength I need,
"Loved one, place in God thy trust!"

Oh, 'tis more than joy to feel

Thou art watching o'er my weal!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD.

HIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling.

THIS

Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms, But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villagers with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise-how wild and drearyWhen the death-angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere

Will mingle with their awful symphonies!

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus-
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer; Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song; And loud, amid the universal clamor,

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din;
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpents' skin

The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
The shout that every prayer for mercy
drowns ;
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade—
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these,

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies ?

Were half the power that fills the world with terror,

Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,

Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals nor forts;

The warrior's name would be a name abhorrèd;
And every nation that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead

Would wear for evermore the curse of CAIN!