High thoughts!

Goes up to heaven
In purity,

Till all is glory

And joy to me!

They are my own

When I am resting on a mountain's bosom,
And see below me strown

The huts and homes where humble virtues blossom; When I can trace each streamlet through the meadowWhen I can follow every fitful shadow—

When I can watch the winds among the corn,

And see the waves along the forest borne;

Where bluebell and heather

Are blooming together,

And far doth come

The Sabbath bell,
O'er wood and fell;
I hear the beating
Of nature's heart;
Heaven is before me-
God! Thou art!

Philip James Bailey.

Born 1816.

BORN in Nottingham, on 22d April 1816. He matriculated at the University of Glasgow, and afterwards studied for the English bar, to which he was called in 1840. In 1839 he published "Festus," an extraordinary poem, abounding in grand and splendid ideas. It met with great success, and he at once took a high place among the poets of our age. In 1855 appeared "The Mystic," and in 1858 "The Age," both of which sustain his reputation.

Genius.

FROM "FESTUS."

It is the strain

Of all high spirits towards Him. Thou couldst not,
Even if thou wouldst, behold God: masked in dust,
Thine eye did light on darkness: but when dead,
And the dust shaken off the shining essence,
God shall glow through thee as through living glass,
And every thought and atom of thy being
Shall guest His glory, be overbright with God.

Hadst thou not been by faith immortalised
For the instant, then thine eye had been thy death.
Come, I will shew thee heaven and all angels.
Lo! the recording angel.

Festus

Him I see

High-seated, and the pen within his hand

Plumed like a storm-portending cloud which curves
Half over heaven, and swift in use divine

As is a warrior's spear!

Genius.

The book wherein

Are writ the records of the universe

Lies like a world laid open at his feet.

And there, the Book of Life which holds the names,
Form'd out in starry brilliants, of God's sons-
The spirit-names which angels learn by heart,
Of worlds beforehand. Wilt thou see thine own!
Festus. My name is written in the Book of Life.
It is enough. That constellated word

Is more to me and clearer than all stars,
Henceforward and for aye.

Frances Browne.

Born 1816.

A BLIND poetess, daughter of the postmaster of Stranorlar in Donegal. When only eighteen months old she lost her sight from smallpox, yet as she advanced in life she became noted for her rapid acquisition of knowledge. In 1840 she published in the Irish Penny Journal "Songs of our Land;" in 1841 she sent some pieces to the "Athenæum," which were much admired; and in 1844 she published a volume of her poems. In 1847 she issued a second volume of poems, all remarkable for rich poetic diction, and for vigorous thought and deep feeling. The following piece refers to an Irish exile.

THE LAST FRIENDS.

I COME to my country, but not with the hope

That brightened my youth like the cloud-lighting bow, For the vigour of soul that seemed mighty to cope With time and with fortune hath fled from me now; And love, that illumined my wanderings of yore, Hath perished, and left but a weary regret For the star that can rise on my midnight no moreBut the hills of my country they welcome me yet!

The hue of their verdure was fresh with me still,
When my path was afar by the Tanais' lone track ;
From the wide spreading deserts and ruins, that fill

The lands of old story they summoned me back; They rose on my dreams through the shades of the West, They breathed upon sands which the dew never wet, For the echoes were hushed in the home I loved bestBut I knew that the mountains would welcome me yet!

The dust of my kindred is scattered afar—

They lie in the desert, the wild, and the wave;
For serving the strangers through wandering and war,
The isle of their memory could grant them no grave.
And I, I return with the memory of years,

Whose hope rose so high though in sorrow it set;
They have left on my soul but the trace of their tears-
But our mountains remember their promises yet!

Oh, where are the brave hearts that bounded of old,
And where are the faces my childhood hath seen?
For fair brows are furrowed, and hearts have grown cold
But our streams are still bright, and our hills are still
green;

Ay, green as they rose to the eyes of my youth,

When brothers in heart in their shadows we met; And the hills have no memory of sorrow or death, For their summits are sacred to liberty yet!

Like ocean retiring, the morning mists now

Roll back from the mountains that girdle our land; And sunlight encircles each heath-covered brow, For which time hath no furrow and tyrants no brand: Oh, thus let it be with the hearts of the isleEfface the dark seal that oppression hath set; Give back the lost glory again to the soil, For the hills of my country remember it yet!

N. P. Willis.

Born 1817.

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS was born at Portland, U.S., on 20th January 1817. He has been a contributor to many of the American periodicals. He was attached to the American embassy in France, and visited Italy, Greece, Turkey, and England; and his "Pencillings by the Way" obtained a high reputation, both here and in America. In 1840 he published a volume of poems, and since then he has spent a busy literary life, as editor or contributor to various American periodicals. His sister, under the name of Fanny Fern, has also won literary distinction.

TO LAURA.

BRIGHT be the skies that cover thee,

Child of the sunny brow-
Bright as the dream flung over thee
By all that meets thee now.
Thy heart is beating joyously,
Thy voice is like a bird's,
And sweetly breaks the melody
Of thy imperfect words.

I know no fount that gushes out
As gladly as thy tiny shout.

I would that thou mightst ever be
As beautiful as now---

That time might ever leave as free
Thy yet unwritten brow.

I would life were 66 all poetry,"

To gentle measures set,

That nought but chastened melody,
Might stain thine eye of jet—
Nor one discordant note be spoken
Till God the cunning harp hath broken.

I fear thy gentle loveliness,

Thy witching tone and air,
Thine eye's beseeching earnestness,
May be to thee a snare.

The silver stars may purely shine,

The waters taintless flow,

But they who kneel at woman's shrine

Breathe on it as they bow

Ye may fling back the gift again,

But the crushed flower will leave a stain.

What shall preserve thee, beautiful child?
Keep thee as thou art now?
Bring thee, a spirit undefiled,
At God's pure throne to bow?
The world is but a broken reed,
And life grows early dim;
Who shall be near thee in thy need,
To lead thee up to Him?

He who himself was "undefiled,"

With him we trust thee, beautiful child!

Reb. Charles Kingsley.

Born 1819.

A POET, theologian, and novelist, and one of the most remarkable and philanthropic men of his age. He is chiefly known by his prose writings, but his poetical talents are considerable. He was born near Dartmoor,

in Devonshire, in 1819, and was intended for the profession of the law. His tastes, however, led him to take orders in the church, in which he obtained the rectory of Eversley, made famous by its connection with his name. In 1859 he was appointed Professor of Modern History in Cambridge University.

THREE FISHERS WENT SAILING.

Three fishers went sailing out into the west,
Out into the west, as the sun went down;
Each thought on the woman who loved him best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town.
For men must work and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbour be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the light-house tower,

And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. But men must work and women must weep, Though storms be sudden and waters deep, And the harbour be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands

In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands, For those who will never come back to the town. For men must work and women must weep, And the sooner it's over the sooner to sleep, And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.