GLEN ALMAIN; OR, THE NARROW GLEN.

IN this still place, remote from men,
Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen;
In this still place, where murmurs on
But one meek streamlet, only one,
He sang of battles, and the breath

Of stormy war, and violent death;

And should, methinks, when all was past,

Have rightfully been laid at last

Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent

As by a spirit turbulent;

Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,

And everything unreconcil'd;

In some complaining dim retreat,

For fear and melancholy meet;

But this is calm: there cannot be

A more entire tranquillity.

Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?

Or is it but a groundless creed?

What matters it?-I blame them not

Whose fancy in this lonely spot

Was moved, and in this way express'd

Their notion of its perfect rest.
A convent, even a hermit's cell,
Would break the silence of this Dell:

It is not quiet, is not ease;

But something deeper far than these:

The separation that is here

Is of the grave; and of austere

And happy feelings of the dead:
And therefore was it rightly said
That Ossian, last of all his race!
Lies buried in this lonely place.

WORDSWORTH.

THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES.

THAT way look, my Infant, lo
What a pretty baby-show!

See the Kitten on the wall,

Sporting with the leaves that fall,

Withered leaves-one-two-and three

From the lofty elder tree!

Through the calm and frosty air

Of this morning bright and fair,

Eddying round and round they sink,

Softly, slowly one might think,

From the motions that are made,

Every little leaf conveyed

Sylph or Fairy hither tending,-
To his lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,

In this wavering parachute.

-But the Kitten, how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!
First at one, and then its fellow,
Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many now-now one-
Now they stop, and there are none.
What intenseness of desire

In her upward eye of fire!

With a tiger-leap half-way

Now she meets the coming prey,

Lets it go as fast, and then

Has it in her power again:

Now she works with three or four,

Like an Indian conjuror;

Quick as he in feats of art,

Far beyond in joy of heart.

Were her antics played in the eye

Of a thousand standers-by,

Clapping hands with shout and stare,

What would little Tabby care

THE MAYING.

To roam with thee through wildwood paths, Of harebells blue and pimpernels,

And Fate is kind to those who strive

To make existence pleasant,

With harmless joys and simple tastes,

And kindness ever present.

We'll not complain; so come away,

And when we want a treasure,

We'll use these May-day memories

To buy forgotten pleasure.