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NIGHT.

Night is the time for rest;

How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Down on our own delightful bed !

Night is the time for dreams;

The gay romance of life,
When truth that is, and truth that seems,

Mix in fantastic strife :
Ah! visions, less beguiling far
Than waking dreams by daylight are !

Night is the time for toil ;

To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil

Its wealthy furrows yield ;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, and heroes wrought.

Night is the time to weep ;

To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory, where sleep

The joys of other years ;
Hopes, that were Angels at their birth,
But died when young like things of earth.

Night is the time to watch ;

O’er ocean's dark expanse, To hail the Pleiades, or catch

The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the home-sick mind All we have loved and left behind.

Night is the time for care ;

Brooding on hours misspent,
To see the spectre of Despair,

Come to our lonely tent;
Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host,
Summoned to die by Cæsar's ghost.
Night is the time to think ;

When, from the eye, the soul
Takes flight, and, on the utmost brink

Of yonder starry pole,
Discerns beyond the abyss of night
The dawn of uncreated light.

Night is the time to pray;

Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away;

So will his follower do,
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And commune there alone with God.

Night is the time for Death ;

When all around is peace,
Calmly to yield the weary breath,

From sin and suffering cease,
Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends ;-such death be mine.

ON VISITING A SCENE OF CHILDHOOD.

“ I came to the place of my birth, and said, “The friends of my youth, where are they?" and Echo answered, “Where are they ?!" Long years had elapsed since I gazed on the scene, Which my fancy still robed in its freshness of green, The spot where, a school-boy, all thoughtless, I strayed By the side of the stream, in the gloom of the shade.

H

I thought of the friends, who had roamed with me there,
When the sky was so blue, and the flowers were so fair,-
All scattered !-all sundered by mountain and wave,
And some in the silent embrace of the grave !
I thought of the green banks, that circled around,
With wild-flowers, and sweet-briar, and eglantine,

crowned :
I thought of the river, all quiet and bright
As the face of the sky on a blue summer night:
And I thought of the trees, under which we had strayed,
Of the broad leafy boughs, with their coolness of shade;
And I hoped, though disfigured, some token to find
Of the names, and the carvings, impressed on the rind.
All eager, I hastened the scene to behold,
Rendered sacred and dear by the feelings of old ;
And I deemed that, unaltered, my eye should explore
This refuge, this haunt, this Elysium of yore.
'Twas a dream !_not a token or trace could I view
Of the names that I loved, of the trees that I knew :
Like the shadows of night at the dawning of day,
“ Like a tale that is told,”—they had vanished away.
And methought the lone river, that murmured along,
Was more dull in its motion, more sad in its song,
Since the birds, that had nestled and warbled above,
Had all fled from its banks, at the fall of the grove.

I paused :--and the moral came home to my heart :-
Behold, how of earth all the glories depart!
Our visions are baseless, our hopes but a gleam,
Our staff but a reed,--and our life but a dream.
Then, 0, let us look- let our prospects allure-
To scenes that can fade not, to realms that endure,
To glories, to blessings, that triumph sublime
O’er the blightings of change, and the ruins of time.

HODGE AND THE VICAR. Hodge, a poor honest country lout,

Not over stocked with learning, Chanced, on a summer's eve, to meet

The vicar, home returning. “Ah! master Hodge,” the vicar cried,

" What still as wise as ever : 6. The people in the village say,

“That you are wond'rous clever." " Why, master parson, as to that

“I beg you'll right conceive me, “I do na brag, but yet I know

“ A thing or two, believe me.” “We'll try your skill,” the parson cried,

“ For learning what digestion : “And this you'll prove, or right or wrong,

“ By solving me a question : “ Noah of old three babies had,

“ Or grown-up children rather; " Shem, Ham, and Japhet they were called :

“ Now, who was Japhet's father ?” “ Rat it !" cried Hodge, and scratched his head,

“That does my wits belabour: “ But howsomde'er, I'll homeward run,

“ And ax old Giles, my neighbour.” To Giles he went, and put the case

With circumspect intention : “ Thou fool,” cried Giles, “ I'll make it clear

“To thy dull comprehension. ** Three children has Tom Long, the smith,

“ Or cattle-doctor rather ; Tom, Dick, and Harry, they are called :

" Now, who is Harry's father ?”

Adzooks ! I have it,” Hodge replied,

“Right well I know your lingo;
“ Who's Harry's father ? stop here goes,

“ Why Tom Long Smith, by jingo.”
Away he ran to find the priest

With all his might and main,
Who with good humour instant put

The question once again :
“ Noah of old three babies had,

“ Or grown-up children rather ;
" Shem, Ham, and Japhet they were called :

“ Now who was Japhet's father ?"
“ I have it now,” Hodge grinning cried,

“I'll answer like a proctor;
“ Who's Japhet's father ? now I know;

“ Why Tom Long Smith, the doctor.”

НОМ Е. The adventurous boy, that asks his little share, And hies from home, with many a gossip's prayer, Turns on the neighbouring hill, once more to see The dear abode of peace and privacy ;" And as he turns, the thatch among the trees, The smoke's blue wreaths ascending with the breeze, The village-common spotted with white sheep, The church-yard yews round which his fathers sleep; All rouse Reflection's sadly-pleasing train, And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again !

So, when the mild Tupia dared explore.. Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown before, And, with the sons of Science, wooed the gale That, rising, swelled their strange expanse of sail ; So, when he breathed his firm yet fond adieu, Borne from his leafy hut, his carved canoe,

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