WEET was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,

Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came softened from below; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that lowed to meet their young: The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school; The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind,These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear.

And passing rich, with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, or wished to change his place.
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side,
But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all :
And as a bird each fond endearment tries,

To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt and pain by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul:
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place:
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
E'en children followed, with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven:
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm;
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

ICHAEL bid sound the archangel trumpet;
Through the vast of heaven

It sounded, and the faithful armies rung
Hosanna to the Highest: nor stood at gaze
The adverse legions, nor less hideous joined
The horrid shock. Now storming fury rose,
And clamor, such as heard in heaven till now
Was never; arms on armor clashing brayed
Horrible discord, and the madding wheels
Of brazen chariots raged; dire was the noise
Of conflict; overhead the dismal hiss
Of fiery darts in flaming volleys flew,
And flying vaulted either host with fire.
So under fiery cope together rushed
Both battles main, with ruinous assault
And inextinguishable rage. All heaven

Resounded; and had earth been then, all earth
Had to her centre shook.

Into their substance pent, which wrought them pain
Implacable, and many a dolorous groan;

Long struggling underneath, ere they could wind
Out of such prison, though spirits of purest light,
Purest at first, now gross by sinning grown.
The rest, in imitation, to like arms
Betook them, and the neighboring hills uptore:

So hills amid the air encountered hills,
Hurled to and fro with jaculation dire,

That underground they fought in dismal shade,
Infernal noise! war seemed a civil game
To this uproar; horrid confusion heaped
Upon confusion rose.

ARE thee well, and if forever,
Still forever, fare thee well;

E'en though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee

Which thou ne'er canst know again:
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show !
Then thou wouldst at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee-
Though it smile upon the blow,
E'en its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe.

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found

Than the one which once embraced me
To inflict a cureless wound!

LORD BYRON.

Yet, oh, yet thyself deceive not:
Love may sink by slow decay;
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:
Still thine own its life retaineth-

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat,
And th' undying thought which paineth
Is-that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow

Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow Wakes us from a widowed bed. And when thou wouldst solace gather When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"

Though his care she must forego? When her little hands shall press thee,

When her lip to thine is pressed, Think of him whose love shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had blessed.

Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more mayst see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes where'er thou goest,
Whither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,
E'en my soul forsakes me now
But 'tis done; all words are iule-
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.
Fare thee well! thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie,
Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grainBut who shall teach us when to look for thee? Is it when Spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?They have one season-all are ours to die.

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art around us in our peaceful home,

And the world calls us forth-and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest-
Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend

The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

D

O you know you have asked for the costliest thing

Ever made by the Hand above

A woman's heart and a woman's life,

And a woman's wonderful love?

Do you know you have asked for this priceless thing

As a child might ask for a toy?

Demanding what others have died to win,

With the reckless dash of a boy?

You have written my lesson of duty out,
Man-like you have questioned me-

Now stand at the bar of my woman's soul,
Until I shall question thee.

You require your mutton shall always be hot,
Your socks and your shirts shall be whole;

I require your heart to be true as God's stars,
And pure as heaven your soul.

You require a cook for your mutton and beef;

I require a far better thing:

A seamstress you're wanting for stockings and shirts

I look for a man and a king

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

A king for a beautiful realm called home,
And a man that the maker, God,
Shall look upon as He did the first,
And say, "It is very good."

I am fair and young, but the rose will fade

From my soft, young cheek one dayWill you love me then, 'mid the falling leaves

As you did 'mid the bloom of May?

Is your heart an ocean so strong and deep

I may launch my all on its tide?

A loving woman finds heaven or hell

On the day she is made a bride.

I require all things that are grand and true,

All things that a man should be;

If you give this all, I would stake my life To be all you demand of me.

If you cannot do this-a laundress and cook
You can hire, with little to pay;

But a woman's heart and a woman's life
Are not to be won that way.