BY WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER .

Come to the hills with me!
Come tread the green and flowery paths, that wind
'Neath many a stately tree
That, ages lost, hath lined
These airy summits of our Western Land!
The stars are fading, and the breeze is bland.

Come to the hills with me!
The fresh-lipp'd Morn is breathing glorious life.
Don thy calash, and flee
The city's dust and strife:
Leave thy prunelle and silken hose, and take
Calf-skin and worsted! — quick, thy toilet make!

Within the closure of this narrow grave
Lye all those graces a good-wife could have;
But on this marble they shall not be read,
For then the living envy would the dead.

To Eden fast gated,
Heart-broken, belated,
Corin came weeping; ashamed was he.
On turret and border,
Attentive to order,
Stood watcher and warder, a wonder to see!

Quoth he, " O ye Powers
Who stand in high towers,
And bring to yon bowers the captive set free,
Let your bright sentry
Oppose not my entry,
For Phillada yonder sits weeping for me. "

Questioned a hearer:
" From Eden what bearer
Of fables has told ye a wonder so wise?
What sorrow of mortals
Can enter these portals,

BY JOHN B. DILLON .

Where shall the dead, and the beautiful, sleep?
In the vale where the willow and cypress weep;
Where the wind of the west breathes its softest sigh;
Where the silvery stream is flowing nigh,
And the pure, clear drops of its rising sprays
Glitter like gems in the bright moon's rays —
Where the sun's warm smile may never dispel
Night's tears o'er the form we loved so well —
In the vale where the sparkling waters slow;
Where the fairest, earliest violets grow;

The little birds in copse and hatch
Were singing as their throats would break;
The little nestlings in the thatch
Were crying hungrily awake;
The little bantam on the green,
With sunlight ruddy in his comb,
Went strutting eager to be seen:
And thou, my love, wast coming home!

The beauteous warbling of the birds,
The simple things they had to say,
The callow beaks, so full of words,
Did make a music of the day:
That bit o' sunbeam bright as blood,
So like a feather in the comb,
Through all creation seemed to flood,

Aithen, thy pearly coronet let fall,
Clad in sad robes, upon thy temples set
The weeping cypresse, or the sable jet:
Mourne this thy nursling's losse, a losse which all
Apollo's quire bemoanes, which many yeares
Cannot repaire, nor influence of spheares.

Ah! when shalt thou find shepheard like to him,
Who made thy bankes more famous by his worth,
Than all those gems thy rocks and streams send forth?
His splendor others' glow-worm light did dim,
Sprung of an ancient and a vertuous race,
He vertue more than many did embrace.

BY THOMAS H. SHREVE .

Before we hear the mournful chime
Of Sadness falling on the hours,
Before we feel the winds of Time
Like frost-breath on the heart's wild flowers. —

We stand by Life's mysterious stream,
Viewing the stars reflected there;
And dream not that each vivid gleam
Can ever be o'ercast by care.

But as its murmurs gently rise,

Like to the garden's eye, the flower of flow'rs
With purple pompe that dazle doth the sight,
Or as among the lesser gems of night,
The usher of the planet of the houres,
Sweet maid, thou shinedst on this world of ours,
Of all perfections having trac'd the hight:
Thine outward frame was faire, faire inward powers,
A saphire lanthorne, and an incense light.
Hence, the enamour'd heaven, as too too good
On earth's all-thorny soyle long to abide,
Transplanted to their fields so rare a bud,
Where from thy sun no cloud thee now can hide.

Far from these bankes exiled be all joyes,
Contentments, pleasures, musick, care's reliefe,
Tears, sighs, plaints, horrours, frightments, sad annoies
Invest these mountaines, fill all hearts with griefe.

Here nightingals and turtles vent your moanes;
Amphrisian shepheard here come feed thy flocks,
And read thy hyacinth amidst our groanes,
Plaine, Eccho, thy Narcissus from our rocks.

Lost have our meads their beauty, hills their gemms,
Our brooks their christall, groves their pleasant shade,
The fairest flow'r of all our anademms

Beautiful old Moon! a sennight ago thou wast young:
Now from west unto east the weight of thy head is hung.
Ah, Moon, Moon! where in the world hast thou been,
To grow so old in a week? What in the world hast thou seen?

And it seems that I hear her say, “Two lovers lay heart to heart,
Only a week ago; and now I have watched them part.”
Only a week ago? To me it seems as a year:
Autumn has gone, and winter has come; and the woods are sere.

Ah, Moon, Moon! When thy head was turned to the west,