And now the wood engirds me, the tall stems Of birch and beech tree hemming me around, Like pillars of some natural temple vast; And, here and there, some giant pines ascend, Briareus-like, amid the stirless air, High stretching; like a good man's virtuous thoughts Forsaking earth for heaven. The cushat stands Amid the topmost boughs, with azure vest, And neck aslant, listening the amorous coo Of her, his mate, who, with maternal wing Wide-spread, sits brooding on opponent tree. Why, from the rank grass underneath my feet, Aside on ruffled pinion dost thou start, Sweet minstrel of the morn? Behold her nest, Thatch'd o'er with cunning skill, and there, her young With sparkling eye, and thin-fledged russet wing; Younglings of air! probationers of song! From lurking dangers may ye rest secure, Secure from prowling weazel, or the tread Of steed incautious, wandering 'mid the flowers? Secure beneath the fostering care of her Who warm'd you into life, and gave you birth; Till, plumed and strong unto the buoyant air, Ye spread your equal wings, and to the morn, Lifting your freckled bosoms, dew-besprent, Salute with spirit-stirring song, the man Wayfaring lonely. Hark! the striderous neigh! There, o'er his dogrose fence, the chestnut foal, Shaking his silver forelock, proudly stands,-- To snuff the balmy fragrance of the morn:-- Up comes his ebon compeer, and, anon, Around the field in mimic chase they fly, Startling the echoes of the woodland gloom. Farewell, ye placid scenes! amid the land Ye smile, an inland solitude: the voice Of peace-destroying man is seldom heard Amid your landscapes. Beautiful ye raise Your green embowering groves, and smoothly spread Your waters, glistening in a silver sheet. The morning is a season of delight-- The morning is the self-possession'd hour-- 'Tis then that feelings, sunk, but unsubdued, Feelings of purer thoughts, and happier days, Awake, and, like the sceptred images Of Banquo's mirror, in succession pass! And, first of all, and fairest, thou dost pass In Memory's eye, beloved! though now afar From those sweet vales, where we have often roam'd Together. Do thy blue eyes now survey The brightness of the morn in other scenes? Other, but haply beautiful as these, Which now I gaze on; but which, wanting thee, Want half their charms, for, to thy poet's thought, More deeply glow'd the heaven, when thy fine eye, Surveying its grand arch, all kindling glow'd; The white cloud to thy white brow was a foil; And, by the soft tints of thy cheek outvied, The dew-bent wild-rose droop'd despairingly. _Blackwood's Mag._ * * * * * THE GATHERER. "A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles." SHAKSPEARE. * * * * * CHANGING COIN.