A NOONTIDE REFLECTION.

IN peerless grandeur rolls on high

The proudly central orb of light, Diffusing through the cloudless sky A lustre most divinely bright: While all admiring Nature seems To recognise the warm embrace, And dancing in the solar beams,

Reflects a corresponding grace.

Yet soon this widely gilded sphere
Will droop beneath such ardent gaze,

And wrapped in sable night appear

Awhile to shun the fervid blaze;

And soon, with all the mingled throng

That revel in debasing crime,

Be found eternally among

The wrecks of antecedent time.

PAIN AND PLEASURE.

WHEN to the angry storms of day

The settled calm of eve succeeds;

And cheerful hope illumes the way

That yet to more enjoyment leads,

We deem the passing conflict o'er,
And think upon its ills no more.

When in the gloomy shades of night

The gladdening tints of morn appear,

And visions rack the tortured sight

No longer with imposing fear,

We rise forgetful of the smart

That reached the uncomplaining heart.

When pain forsakes his wonted grasp

To rankle in some prouder form;

And love as heretofore can clasp

Its votary with a breast as warm,—

We revel in the fond embrace,

And little of the past retrace.

And so when life with all its cares

Shall merge in one profound abyss,

And man's immortal spirit shares

In heaven a happier sphere than this,—

The troubles of the passing scene

Will be as though they ne'er had been.

A TALE.

In a garden attached to a pretty retreat,

Where pleasure asserted her reign,

A Robin selected a prominent seat,

From which at his will he could merrily greet

The abode with his wintry strain.

When the leaf of the lime and the flowering thorn

Lay scattered abroad in the blast,

His song could be heard in the neighbouring lawn,

Saluting the light as it gilded the morn

With hope of a sunny repast.

Then emerging again from his night-hidden spray,

To lavish his praise upon man,

He hurried in visions of gladness away,

And sported in feeding and singing all day,

Unconscious of life's little span.

For a boy that was wont to supply him with food,

And gaze on his pretty red breast,

Took

up a thin pebble in frolicsome mood,

And throwing it where the poor innocent stood,

Consigned him at once to his rest.

The unfortunate death of the Robin was made

A grief to the sensitive boy,

So truly that taking a knife for a spade,
He fashioned a grave, and then quietly laid

The bird in it he chanced to destroy.