And there, far down in the stillness glossed, All riven, bleak, and gray, Was a giant form that frowned above, Though kissed by the summer ray. Then a mist came over the sunbeam's light, The breeze swept chillingly, And something mourned within my heart, But not for the blighted tree. For a vision came with a lordly bow, And stood beside me there, With pride-wreathed lips and a clear dark eye— Away—'twas a thing of air. Yet a being like it on earth once dwelt, With men thus high and cold; But the valley's clods press heavily And mute o'er the spoils they hold. A deep pall covered the wasted corse, A deeper the passing soul; A name that stands like yon gray, sad tree, Was the proud man's earthly goal. LET ME DIE! BY S. M. MONTGOMERY. OH! who would live on in this dreary world, When the light of Hope has fled, And the friends of old are changed and false, And faith and trust are dead; When the heart is crushed 'neath its weight of grief, And the smile of joy is gone, When "love's young dream" is past—all past, Say, who would linger on? Let me die! ay, lay me down to rest In the dreamless sleep of death, Where flowers send forth, at dewy eve, Their pure and perfumed breath; Where the bright sunshine will gently fall, And soft winds murmuring by, Will my requiem chant, in whispers low, Through the green grass waving high. LINES TO A BRONCHITIS BIRDIE. A FRAGMENT. BY N. W. BRIDGE. NOW heed the counsel of a sage, And closely keep in thy warm cage This cold and dreary winter through; See that ye shun the winds of March, No April showers thy plumes unstarch, Nor skies of May thy crest bedew. And then, perchance, sweet airs of June Will find our Birdie's throat in tune, And ye through valleys green may rove, And o'er the sunlit emerald hills, Within the cool refreshing grove, Along the marge of winding rills; And gather flowers of varied hue, 'Mid grassy beds and moss-grown banks, And on them smile, and kiss them, too, While they will sweetly blush their thanks, And drink thy health in drops of dew; Inhale the blossom-scented breeze Within thy oscillating zone, And never cough, nor even sneeze, So sound thy swan-like throat has grown. Then will thy happy voice be heard Amid sweet spring's melodious throng; No other heavenly warbling bird Will sing so joyous, oft, and long. L'ISOLEMENT. TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE, BY WM. A. KENYON. OFTEN, at sunset, on the mountain side, Beneath an aged oak I take my seat, My vision roaming o'er the plain spread wide, Whose panorama opens at my feet.