TO A CITY PIGEON.

STOOP to my window, thou beautiful dove! Thy daily visits have touched my love! I watch thy coming, and list the note That stirs so low in thy mellow throat, And my joy is high

To catch the glance of thy gentle eye.

Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves,

And forsake the wood with its freshened leaves? Why dost thou haunt the sultry street,

When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet? How canst thou bear

This noise of people-this breezeless air?

Thou alone of the feathered race,
Dost look unscared on the human face;
Thou alone, with a wing to flee,

Dost love with man in his haunts to be;
And the 'gentle dove'

Has become a name for trust and love.

A holy gift is thine, sweet bird!

Thou 'rt named with childhood's earliest word; Thou 'rt linked with all that is fresh and wild In the prisoned thoughts of the city childAnd thy even wings

Are its brightest image of moving things.

It is no light chance. Thou art set apart Wisely by him who tamed thy heartTo stir the love for the bright and fair, That else were sealed in the crowded airI sometimes dream

Angelic rays from thy pinions stream.

Come, then, ever when daylight leaves The page I read, to my humble eaves; And wash thy breast in the hollow spout, And murmur thy low, sweet music out— I hear and see

Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in thee!

TO THE MOONBEAMS.

BY HANNAH F. GOULD.

AWAY! Away! from her favorite bower, Where ye loved to come in the evening hour, To silver the leaf, and smile on the flowerAway! away! for the maid ye seek

Hath a clouded eye, and a pale, pale cheek, As the lonely walk, and the flowers all speak.

Away! for the voice that ye could win
To flow with the melody found within,
'Tis hushed, 't is gone, as it never had been;-
And the fearful harp that ye could make
Its deepest and tenderest tones awake,
It hath not a string but it fain would break.

Away! to the slope of the dew-bright hill,
Where the sod is fresh and the air is chill,
Where the marble is white and all is still;
But never reveal who there is led

By your light, to mourn for the early dead,
And weep o'er the lost, in her lonely bed!

THE LOST BOY.

BY O. W. H.

How sweet to boyhood's glowing pulse
The sleep that languid Summer yields,
In the still bosom of the wild,

Or in the flowery fields!

So art thou slumbering, lonely boy —
But ah! how little deemest thou
The hungry felon of the wood,
Is glaring on thee now!

He crept along the tangled glen,
He panted up the rocky steep,
He stands and howls above thy head,
And thou art still asleep!

No trouble mars thy peaceful dream;

And though the arrow, winged with death, Goes glancing near thy thoughtless heart, Thou heedest not its breath.

Sleep on the danger all is past,

The watch-dog, roused, defends thy breast, And well the savage prowler knows

He may not break thy rest!

TO

BLESSED thou art, and shalt be! though thy day
Hath not been cloudless, nor unknown the tear
Of secret grief, too early and severe —
Darkness and sorrow soon shall pass away.
As the disciples, when their aching eye
Caught the first dawning of the eastern light
That saw their Master rising-let thy sight
In faith and hope be ever fixed on high.
Therefore in patience wait the heavenly prize:
Then shall thy deeds in sweet remembrance rise
Before the throne. And why should earthly love,
When on thy cheek the seal of death is set,
Shed the vain tear, or witness with regret

The beautiful made permanent above?