With our own sweet minstrel ever near No sorrow could invade; Her song of love would cheer us still, And bless our woodland shade. Now, many a weary day hath passed Since from my tearful eye Her untaught pinion cleft the air, And vanished in the sky. Why has she gone? Seeks she afar Some green isle’s shadier bowers? Some happier nest—serener airs— And purer love than ours? Oh not on earth! not here—not here! Clouds veil our brightest skies, And summer’s mildest breezes, Chill our bird of Paradise. The treasure which we deemed our own Was briefly lent, not given. _Our Father knew his spotless bird,_ _And called her home to Heaven._ * * * * * LESSONS IN GERMAN. BY MISS M. J. B. BROWNE. CHAPTER I. “Tut-tut-tut! don’t tell me ‘_it means nothing_,’ Sara,” said my uncle Waldron, as he assumed quite an air of resentment, and seized in his hand a cluster of cousin Sara’s beautiful ringlets, school-master fashion, as if about to “pull her hair” for some just discovered mischief. “Why uncle!” expostulated Sara, looking up in his face, with a smile that would have melted an iceberg, so warm and sunny was it—much more did it melt the feigned frown on the brow of my bachelor uncle—“do let me assure you”— “I don’t _want_ any assurances niece—what need has a man of assurances when he sees with his own eyes, especially if he has as much reason for confidence in his visual organs as I have in _mine_,” smilingly retorted uncle Theodore. “Don’t I catch him here most provokingly often? and is there not such a commerce in books between you, as would justify the suspicion that I have not a library of five thousand volumes, of all sorts of books, in all sorts of languages, both living and dead, besides shares in I know not how many circulating libraries”— “But uncle,” I interposed, “you must remember that Mr. Greydon is the _minister_, and he comes to make cousin Sara _pastoral calls_, and to impart spiritual counsel—” I left my apology unfinished, for I was obliged to stop and laugh at its mis-placed sanctimony. “Yes, yes, yes, miss!” replied uncle The., fairly driven into one of his merriest laughs—“and by all means his ‘spiritual’ what-did-you-call-it, must be communicated in _German_—no medium but _German_ now—a little while ago nothing but _French_—by and by it will be hocus-pocus, or some other such gibberish!” “Dear uncle,” interrupted poor blushing Sara, “I’m _studying_ German, and Mr. Greydon is so kind as to give me two lessons a week, out of his very valuable time.”