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"THE WISH FOR FAME IS FAITH IN HOLY THINGS

THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD.

Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies,
And that soft time of sunny showers,
When the wide bloom on earth that lies,

Seems of a brighter world than ours.

[WALTER CULLEN BRYANT, born in the state of Massachusetts, in North America, in 1794. His finest poems are the "Thanutopsis" and "Forest Hymn," but many of his minor pieces display a "tender pensiveness" and "moral melancholy" which interest and delight the reader.]

"THE ONWARD WAVES THEIR SOURCE DESERT; BUT SOUL RETURNS TO SOUL."-LORD LYTTON.

THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD.

B

PON a barren steep,

Above a stormy deep,

I saw an angel watching the wild sea;
Earth was that barren steep,

Time was that stormy deep,
And the opposing shore----Eternity!

THAT SOOTHE THE LIFE, AND SHALL OUTLIVE THE TOUCH."-LYTTON.

"MAN, SAY Our sages, HATH A FICKLE MIND, AND PLEASURES PALL IF LONG ENJOYED THEY BE."-LYTTON.

KNOWLEDGE IS PROUD THAT HE HAS LEARNED SO MUCH :

"Mine all upon the earth,

The Angel's angel-birth,

Sweeping each terror from the howling wild."
Never may I forget

The dream that haunts me yet,

Of Patience nursing Hope-the Angel and the Child.

[LORD LYTTON, one of the most brilliant of living novelists-successful, too, as poet, historian, essayist, and orator-was born in 1805. His principal poem is the epic of "King Arthur,"]

"OF ALL SAD WORDS OF TONGUE OR PEN, THE SADDEST ARE THESE, IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN!'"-WHITTIER.

"THOUGHTS WHOSE VERY SWEETNESS YIELDETH PROOF THAT THEY WERE BORN FOR IMMORTALITY."-WORDSWORTH.

BIRDS IN SUMMER.

JOW pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Flitting about in each leafy tree;

In the leafy trees, so broad and tall,
Like a green and beautiful palace-hall,
With its airy chambers, light and boon,
That open to sun, and stars, and moon.
That open unto the bright blue sky,
And the frolicsome winds as they wander by.

They have left their nests in the forest bough;
Those homes of delight they need not now;
And the young and the old they wander out,
And traverse their green world round about:
And hark! at the top of this leafy hall,
How one to the other they lovingly call;
"Come up, come up!" they seem to say,
"Where the topmost twigs in the breezes sway!"
"Come up, come up, for the world is fair,

Where the merry leaves dance in the summer air!"

WISDOM IS HUMBLE THAT HE KNOWS NO MORE."-Cowper.

"THERE IS A PLEASURE IN THE PATHLESS WOODS, THERE IS A RAPTURE ON THE LONELY SHORE ;

THERE IS SOCIETY, WHERE NONE INTRUDES, BY THE DEEP SEA, AND MUSIC IN ITS ROAR,"-BYRON.

And the birds below give back the cry,
"We come, we come, to the branches high!"
How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Flitting about in a leafy tree;

And away through the air what joy to go,
And look on the bright green earth below!

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Skimming about on the breezy sea,
Cresting the billows like silvery foam,

And then wheeling away to its cliff-built home!
What joy it must be to sail, upborne

By a strong free wing, through the rosy morn,

To meet the young sun face to face,

And pierce like a shaft the boundless space!

HOW GLORIOUS IN ITS ACTION AND ITSELF!"-BYRON.

"WHERE'ER WE TREAD, 'TIS HAUNTED, HOLY GROUND."-BYRON.

THE VOICE OF SPRING.

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Wherever it listeth, there to flee;
To go, when a joyful fancy calls,

Dashing adown 'mong the waterfalls,
Then wheeling about with its mate at play,
Above and below, and among the spray,
Hither and thither, with screams as wild
As the laughing mirth of a rosy child!

What joy must it be, like a living breeze,
To flutter about 'mong the flowering trees;
Lightly to soar, and to see beneath

The wastes of the blossoming purple heath,
And the yellow furze, like fields of gold,
That gladdens some fairy regions old!
On mountain tops, on the billowy sea,
On the leafy stems of the forest tree,

How pleasant the life of a bird must be !

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[MARY HOWITT, born 18-. This gifted and genial poet, novelist, and essayist, who is so deserved a favourite with the youth of England, is the wife of William Howitt, a well-known man of letters.]

"TELL ME, ON WHAT HOLY GROUND MAY DOMESTIC PEACE BE FOUND?"-S. T. COLERIDGE.

"IN A COTTAGED Vale SHE DWELLS, LISTENING TO THE SABBATH BELLS."-S. T. COLERIDGE,

THE VOICE OF SPRING.

AM coming, I am coming!
Hark! the little bee is humming;
See, the lark is soaring high

In the blue and sunny sky;
And the gnats are on the wing,
Wheeling round in airy ring.

See the yellow catkins cover
All the slender willows over;

LOVE STANDS NOT STILL, BUT OR DECAYS OR grows."-BYRON.

"IF WRONG YOU DO, IF FALSE YOU PLAY, IN SUMMER AMONG THE FLOWERS,

HE WHO ASCENDS TO MOUNTAIN-TOPS SHALL FIND

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THE VOICE OF SPRING.

And on banks of mossy green

Star-like primroses are seen;

And, their clustering leaves below,
White and purple violets blow.

Hark! the new-born lambs are bleating,
And the cawing rooks are meeting

YOU MUST ATONE, YOU SHALL REPAY, IN WINTER AMONG THE SHOWERS."-CHARLES MACKAY.

THE LOFTIEST PEAKS MOST WRAPT IN CLOUDS AND SNOW."-BYRON.