Whose love was in the grave-whose hope in heaven. Yet a fine nature must have been his own; world The bright-the beautiful-the glorious worldBut loved it as those love who love on earth, Only the hope that looketh up to heaven. THE SNOWDROP. THOU beautiful new comer, With white and maiden brow; Thou fairy gift from summer, Why art thou blooming now ? This dim and shelter'd alley Is dark with winter green; Not such as in the valley At sweet springtime is seen. The lime tree's tender yellow, Now solemn yews are bending 'Mid gloomy fires around; And in long dark wreaths descending, The ivy sweeps the ground. No sweet companion pledges Thy health as dewdrops pass; No rose is on the hedges, No violet in the grass. Thou art watching, and thou only, Though the singing rill be frozen, 'Tis the love for long years cherish'd, THE ASTROLOGER. ALAS! for our ancient believings, We have nothing now left to believe; The oracle, augur, and omen No longer dismay and deceive. All hush'd are the oaks of Dodona; No more on the winds of the north, No more o'er the flower-wreathed victim The stars have forgotten their science, In the rulers, the bright ones of midnight, O folly! to deem that far planets Now the science of fate is grown lowly, "Tis the same in all ages; the future THE INDIAN GIRL. SHE sat alone beside her hearth- At first she bound her raven hair They saw her wandering 'inid the woods, Her heart was in her large sad eyes, Half sunshine and half shade; And love, as love first springs to life, Of every thing afraid. The red leaf far more heavily Fell down to autumn earth, Than her light feet, which seem'd to move To music and to mirth. With the light feet of early youth, What hopes and joys depart! Ah! nothing like the heavy step Betrays the heavy heart. It is a usual history That Indian girl could tell; Fate sets apart one common doom For all who love too well. The proud-the shy-the sensitive,- A stranger to her forest home, That fair young stranger came They raised for him the funeral songFor him the funeral flame. Love sprang from pity, and her arms Around his arms she threw; She told her father, "If he dies, Your daughter dieth too." For her sweet sake they set him free He linger'd at her side; And many a native song yet tells Of that pale stranger's bride. Two years have pass'd-how much two years Have taken in their flight! They've taken from the lip its smile, And from the eye its light. Poor child! she was a child in yearsSo timid and so young; With what a fond and earnest faith To desperate hope she clung! His eyes grew cold-his voice grew strange They only grew more dear. She served him meekly, anxiously, With love-half faith, half fear. And can a fond and faithful heart Be worthless in those eyes For which it beats ?-Ah! wo to those Who such a heart despise. Poor child! what lonely days she pass'd, But bitter taunts, and careless words, Alas! for love, that sits at home, The grief that sits beside the hearth, Life has no grief beyond. He left her, but she follow'd himShe thought he could not bear When she had left her home for him To look on her despair. Adown the strange and mighty stream She took her lonely way! Yet mournfully-how mournfully!- Died on the midnight wind. Yet still adown the gloomy stream Her husband-he had left their home, And it was home no more. She found him but she found in vain He spurn'd her from his side; He said, her brow was all too dark, For her to be his bride. She grasp'd his hands,-her own were cold, And silent turn'd away, As she had not a tear to shed, And not a word to say. And pale as death she reach'd her boat, And guided it along; With broken voice she strove to raise A melancholy song. None watch'd the lonely Indian girl, She pass'd unmark'd of all, Until they saw her slight canoe Upright, within that slender boat * Niagara. The air is fill'd with shriek and shout- We seek not the hedges where violets blow, There alone in the twilight of evening we go; They are love-tokens offer'd, when heavy with dew, To a lip yet more fragrant an eye yet more blue. But leave them alone to their summer-soft dreamWe seek the green rushes that grow by the stream. THE HINDOO GIRL'S SONG. Away from the meadow, although the long grass Be fill'd with young flowers that smile as we pass; This song alludes to a well-known superstition among Where the bird's eye is bright as the sapphires that the young Hindoo girls. They make a little boat out of a cocoanut shell, place a small lamp and flowers within this shine tiny ark of the heart, and launch it upon the Ganges. If it When the hand of a beauty is deck'd from the float out of sight with its lamp stil burning, the omen is prosperous: if it sinks, the love of which it questions, is illfated. mine. We want not their gems, and we want not their flowers, O! boundaries of Europe! O! rivers great and small! O! islands, gulfs, and capitals! How I abhorr'd ye all! And then those dreadful tables Of shillings, pence, and pounds! Though I own their greater trouble In after life abounds. "Tis strange how memory lingers But distance lends enchantment To all we suffer'd then; Thank Heaven, that I never Can be a child again! FISHING BOATS IN THE MONSOON. THE western coasts of India abound with a great variety of fish, of excellent quality; and a considerable population in the villages along the seashore is occupied in catching it, and, in a great measure, subsist upon it. The mode of catching the fish is as follows: piles or stakes, of considerable size and length, are sunk and secured at certain distances from the shore, extending sometimes several miles out to sea; these are driven or forced down by fastening boats to them at high water, heavily laden with ballast, which, by their own weight as the tide falls, force the stakes deeper into the sandy or muddy bottom. This operation is further assisted at the same time by a number of boatmen swaying upon ropes made fast to the upper part of the stake. To the stakes are attached nets of great length, and of very tough materials, capable of sustaining the weight of such draughts as occasionally appear almost miraculous, exhibiting a motley assemblage of varieties of fish and other marine productions. BURN yet awhile, my wasting lamp, Though long the night may be; The wind is rough, the air is damp, Yet burn awhile for me. The peepul tree beside our door, Why was it planted here to bring Surely some gladder tree should spring O dove that dwellest its leaves among, Why art thou singing now ? (39) All things are omens to the heart I see the lights amid the bay, A weary lot the fisher hath Over the wild waves is his path, I cannot hear the wind go by I look upon the sunny sea, I cannot sleep as others sleep, Ah, see a speck the waves among, SCENES IN LONDON. THE SAVOYARD IN GROSVENOR SQUARE. HE stands within the silent square, It is a tomb which wealth and rank None heed the wandering boy who sings, An orphan though so young; None cheer him with a kindly look, The singer's little pride must brook 2c2 At home, their sweet bird he was styled, He wanders now through weary streets, How little sympathy he meets, Sudden his dark brown cheek grows bright, He sees an orange tree. No more the toil-worn face is pale, He sees the squirrel climb the pine, His heart is full of hope and home, O charm of natural influence! Never might the world-wearied sense Bless'd be thy magic everywhere, How kindlier is for us thy care, BEVERLEY MINSTER. BUILT in far other times, those sculptured walls Attest the faith which our forefathers felt, Strong faith, whose visible presence yet remains; We pray with deeper reverence at a shrine Hallow'd by many prayers. For years, long years, Years that make centuries-those dimlit aisles, Where rainbows play, from colour'd windows flung, Have echo'd to the voice of prayer and praise; | Obey'd the summons: earth grew near to God, THE MONTMORENCY WATERFALL AND CONE. "WHEN the river St. Lawrence is frozen below the Falls, the level ice becomes a support on which the freezing spray descends as sleet; it there remains, and gradually assumes the figure of an irregular cone, which continues to enlarge its dimensions till, towards the close of the winter, it becomes stupendous. The height of the cone varies considerably, in different seasons; as the quantity of spray depends on the supply of water to the Falls-the spray, of course, being most dense when the rush of water is strong and impetuous. In 1829 and 1832, it did not reach a greater altitude than one hundred and thirty feet. The face of the cone, opposite to the Falls, differs from the rest of its surface, it being composed of stalactites; this formation arises from the dashing of the water against its base, which freezes in its descent, and by the continual action produces enormous icicles." - "The formation of this cone may serve to explain the origin of glaciers." "To the inhabitants of Quebec, the cone is a source of endless amusement. When the weather is temperate, parties in single-horse curricles and tandems are seen hurrying to the spot, to enjoy the beauty of the scene, and to make descents, upon small sleighs, from the top of the cone to the plain below." We do not ask for the leaves and flowers That laugh as they look on the summer hours; Let the violets shrink and sigh, Let the red rose pine and die: The sledge is yoked, away we go, Amid the firs, o'er the soundless snow. Lo! the pine is singing its murmuring song, The sledge is yoked, away we go, Anid the firs, o'er the soundless snow. The ice is bright with a thousand dyes We are wrapp'd with ermine and sable round, |