Out! out! treading the green turf--lying on some flowery bank--dreaming beneath the leafy shade. Who would be pent up within four stone walls on such a day, when he could forth with the blue above and the green below, and a thousand gleesome things around? What though the walls are gilded, and the lofty ceiling fretted; the Persian carpet soft as the woodland moss; whilst the luxuries of art, the beauties of genius, lend their splendors with a gorgeous profusion? Still it is only a magnificent prison. We see but little of the blue heaven; scarcely more of the varied tints of earth. The air we breathe is close; and the heart flutters to be free, as the imprisoned butterfly on the first day of spring. Who would not rather go forth into the fresh, free air, than be a prisoner even in a gilded cage? And Nature, is she not more beautiful than Art? Doth not that beauty make the step more buoyant, and the heart more light? How one loves a summer day with all its gentle glories its murmured music--its delicious fragrance--its warmth, gladdening, not oppressing, its soft and soothing air--its dreamy feel, its shadows and its lights--its brilliant visions and its stirring thoughts--and more, far more, its loving memories! * * * * * SONG. My dwelling is no lordly hall, I rule no wide domain; No bending servants wait my call, No flatterers swell my train; But roses twine around my home, Bright smiles my presence greet; The woodland wild is mine to roam, Mine Summer's odors sweet. No costly diamonds deck my hair, No cloth of gold have I; But gorgeous robes and jewels rare Stay not the sad heart's sigh. Those gems might bind an aching brow, There is no pain in mine; Red gold might win a faithless vow, And I be left to pine. BY G. P. R. JAMES.