CHURCH MUSIC. The organ rolls its breath in volumes round ANONYMOUS. BEAUTY. Compare her eyes, Not to the sun, for they do shine by night: SPENSER. EYES. Those eyes, those eyes, how full of heaven they are, When the calm twilight leaves the heaven most holy: Tell me, sweet eyes, from what divinest star Did ye drink in your liquid melancholy : Tell me, beloved eyes. BULWER. INNOCENCE. We were as twin'd lambs that did frisk i' the sun, SHAKSPERE. THE WOODLAND WAITS. The author of this very beautiful poem is not known to us. We found it in an old collection of fugitive poetry. THE trees were tall and leafy And the birds about our cottage eaves 'Twas sweet on April's morning, And when the winds blew colder, 'Twas first our rosy Segelind That was a glorious summer VOL. VI. Q We toil'd together in the fields Yet our hearts were in our children's graves The woods wore autumn's riches, And we had work'd, and we had pray'd, But the cottage was a dreary place As fell that Christmas eve. The frost was on the forest, The full moon in the sky, And we tried to cheer each other's hearts, My Ernestine and I, With talk of far-off Christmas times, And how the blithe waits sung At midnight in the brave old town But oh! the worldless memories We thought of those who wreath'd our door With holly boughs and leaves, And sung their hymn by moonlight there On other Christmas eves. There rose a sound of singing And such a strain the sleeping woods You'll say it was a dream-but well We knew the voices three- They sang no hymn nor carol Our memory could discern, But, friend, it was that blessed song No earthly lips may learn. For we have both grown dim of sight It told us they were shadows That seem'd our lives to bound, And I have wish'd that many a heart THE MAID OF THE PEOPLE. A translation of one of BERANGER's most popular songs. DEAR maid of the people! the flowers of thy youth For the popular poet are lavishly strung. These you owed, from your cradle, to him, for, in sooth, 'Twas to dry your first tears his first lyrics he sung. There's no lady or countess may ever entice, With her graces, the heart long devoted to thine. A boy, without fame, when my footsteps would roam And swing back the closely-barr'd portal for me. Had wither'd and died with the troubadour line, How weary the chambers where listlessness lies, Where the joys, should they come there, but fade as they rise, Like fireworks a shower has put suddenly out. Once a week, in gay bonnet and garment of white, To the fields, in thin shoes you go rambling so fine. Still come; make my Sunday a day of delight; For the birth and the loves of the people are mine. What beauty of gentle or queenly degree Excels my dear maid in her neatness and grace? Bears a heart of warm youth more o'erflowing than she, An eye more divine, a more exquisite face? The people at length has a fame of its own; I have warr'd with two courts for its rights, and opine Thou wast due to the bard that has sung its renown; For the births and the loves of the people are mine. EARLY PREDILECTION FOR A SEAFARING LIFE. I LOVED to walk where none had walk'd before, |