"WHO HAS ROBBED THE OCEAN CAVE ?"

JOHN SHAW.

Who has robbed the ocean cave,
To tinge thy lips with coral hue?
Who, from India's distant wave,
For thee those pearly treasures drew?
Who, from yonder orient sky,
Stole the morning of thine eye?

Thousand charms thy form to deck,
From sea, and earth, and air are torn;
Roses bloom upon thy cheek,

On thy breath their fragrance borne:
Guard thy bosom from the day,
Lest thy snows should melt away.

But one charm remains behind,

Which mute earth could ne'er impart;

Nor in ocean wilt thou find,

Nor in the circling air, a heart:

Fairest, wouldst thou perfect be,
Take, oh take that heart from me.

Rivals the summer skies;

Two lips whose ripe and cherry hue

With bright carnation vies;

Two rippling waves of gold brown hair, An antique comb to keep them straight; A sweet and simple face most fairPressed on my heart is this portrait.

TWO PICTURES.

MARIAN DOUGLASS.

An old farm-house, with meadows wide,
And sweet with clover on each side;
A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out
The door with woodbine wreathed about
And wishes his one thought all day:
"O if I could but fly away

From this dull spot the world to see, How happy, happy, happy,

How happy I should be!"

Amid the city's constant din,

A man who round the world has been,
Who, 'mid the tumult and the throng,
Is thinking, thinking all day long,-
"O could I only tread once more
The field path to the farm house door,

The old, green meadows could I see, How happy, happy, happy,

How happy I should be!"

101

EXTRACTS FROM "BURNS.”

F. G. HALLECK.

He kept his honesty and truth,
His independent tongue and pen,
And moved in manhood as in youth,
Pride of his fellow-men.

Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong,
A hate of tyrant and of knave,
A love of right, a scorn of wrong,
Of coward and of slave,

A kind, true heart, a spirit high,

That could not fear and would not bow, Were written in his manly eye

And on his manly brow.

Praise to the bard! His words are driven, Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown, Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven,

The birds of fame have flown.

Praise to the man! A nation stood
Beside his coffin with wet eyes,

EXTRACTS FROM "BURNS.". THE NATIVITY.

103

Her brave, her beautiful, her good,

As when a loved one dies.

And still, as on his funeral day,

Men stand his cold earth-couch around,
With the mute homage that we pay
To consecrated ground.

And consecrated ground it is,

The last, the hallowed home of one
Who lives upon all memories,
Though with the buried gone.

Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines,
Shrines to no code or creed confined,-
The Delphian vales, the Palestines,
The Meccas of the mind.

THE NATIVITY.

J. MILTON.

This is the month, and this the happy morn,
Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King,
Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,

Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing,

That he our daily forfeit should release,
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

That glorious form, that light unsufferable,