Spent are thy wings, poor wanderer on the deep, Minion of spring, frail wrestler with the breeze, Led by young hope o’er ever-spreading seas Where the wing’d storms their prowling vigils keep, Mayhap ’twas thou that built thy clayey nest Last springtide at my lattice arched with flowers— Thy tiny wing that beat the morning hours And woke my fair girl from her dewy rest. But no! for ’mid a thousand, were I blind, Methinks I’d know that bird, by instinct rare; Yet fear not, heaven’s dark brow looks now more kind. Repose—then flutter through the brightening air, But when thou meet’st the sharers of my heart Thy benefactor’s grief by mystic spell impart! * * * * * ERROR. BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY, AUTHOR OF “CONSTANCE LATIMER,” ETC. “Pause, heedless mortal, and reflect—this day, This very hour—nay, yesterday, mayhap, Thou mayst have done what cannot be recalled, And steeped thy future years in darkest night. Some trivial act or word, now quite forgot, May have impelled the iron wheels of fate, Which onward roll to crush thee in their course.” One of the most beautiful of the many lovely villages which lie within the foldings of the Connecticut river is Elmsdale. Occupying a small peninsula, round which the stream winds so closely that at the first view it seems entirely separated from the main land, and lying aside from the highroad which traverses the valley of the Connecticut, Elmsdale is one of the most quiet and sequestered spots to be found in New England. Like most places which offer no inducement to the spirit of speculation, the village is inhabited chiefly by the descendants of those who had first settled there. The old men have been companions in boyhood, and have sported in the same fields which now echo to the merry shouts of their grandchildren. The most of them still cultivate the farms which belonged to their forefathers, and even the adventurous few, who have been tempted to go out into the world beyond, usually return to finish their days on their native soil.