A WISH.

S. ROGERS.

Mine be a cot beside the hill;

A bee hive's hum shall soothe mine ear; A willowy brook that turns a mill,

With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch

Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees,

Where first our marriage vows were giver, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven.

LINES WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT

AT EVENING.

W. WORDSWORTH.

How richly glows the water's breast

Before us, tinged with evening hues, While facing thus the crimson west,

The boat her silent course pursues! And see how dark the backward stream! A little moment past so smiling! And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, Some other loiterers beguiling.

Such views the youthful bard allure;

But, heedless of the following gloom, He deems their colors shall endure

Till peace go with him to the tomb.
And let him nurse his fond deceit,

And what if he must die in sorrow!
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,
Though grief and pain may come to-morrow!

WHO WILL CARE.

Who will care?

When we lay beneath the daisies,
Underneath the churchyard mold,
And the long grass o'er our faces
Lays its fingers damp and cold;
When we sleep from care and sorrow,
And the ills of earthly life--
Sleep, to know no sad to-morrow,
With its bitterness of strife-
Who will care?

Who will care?

Who will come to weep above us,
Lying, oh! so white and still,
Underneath the skies of summer,
When all nature's pulses thrill
To a new life, glad and tender,

Full of beauty, rich and sweet,
And the world is clad in splendor
That the years shall e'er repeat-
Who will care?

Who will care?

Who will think of white hands lying On a still and silent breast,

WHO WILL CARE-NIGHT AND DEATH.

Never more to know of sighing,
Evermore to know of rest?
Who will care? No one can tell us,
But if rest and peace befall,
Will it matter if they miss us,
Or they miss us not at all?
Not at all!

NIGHT AND DEATH.

J. BLANCO WHITE.

Mysterious night! when our first parent knew
Thee from report Divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorius canopy of light and blue?
Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,

Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came,
And lo! creation widened in man's view.

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Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O sun! or who could find,
Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed,

That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind?
Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife?
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?

THE BABY.

No shoes to hide her tiny toes,
No stockings on her feet;
Her supple ankles white as snow,
Or early blossoms sweet.

Her simple dress of sprinkled pink,
Her double, dimpled chin,

Her puckered lip and balmy mouth,
With not one tooth within.

Her eyes so like her mother's eyes,
Two gentle liquid things;
Her face is like an angel's face-
We're glad she has no wings.

She is the budding of our love,
A gift God gave to us;
We must not love the gift o'er well,
"Twould be no blessing thus.