Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours, Of winters past, or coming, void of care, Well pleased with delights which present are,-- Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers, To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bowers Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,-- A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs (Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven? Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres--yes, and to angels lays! SLEEP. Now while the Night her sable veil hath spread, And silently her resty coach doth roll, Rousing with her, from Thetis' azure bed, Those starry nymphs which dance about the pole; While Cynthia, in purest cypress clad. The Latmian shepherd in a trance descries, And, looking pale from height of all the skies, She dyes her beauties in a blushing red; While Sleep, in triumph, closed hath all eyes, And birds and beasts a silence sweet do keep, And Proteus' monstrous people in the deep,-- The winds and waves, hush'd up, to rest entice,-- I wake, I turn, I weep, oppress'd with pain, Perplex'd in the meanders of my brain. Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings, Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings, Sole comforter of minds which are oppress'd-- Lo! by thy charming rod, all breathing things Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulness possess'd, And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings Thou spar'st, alas! who cannot be thy guest. Since I am thine, O come,--but with that face To inward light, which thou art wont to shew-- With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe; Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace, Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath I long to kiss the image of my death! * * * * * Hark, happy lovers, hark! This first and last of joys, This sweetener of annoys, This nectar of the gods, You call a kiss, is with itself at odds: And half so sweet is not, In equal measure got At light of sun as it is in the dark: Hark, happy lovers, hark! * * * * * NOTES OF A READER * * * * * INDIAN FEAST OF SOULS. Every three or four years, by a general agreement, the Indians disinter the bodies of such as have died within that time; finding the soft parts mouldered away, they carefully clean the bones, and each family wrap up the remains of their departed friends in new fur. They are then laid together in one mound or barrow, and the ceremony concludes with a feast, with dances, songs, speeches, games, and mock combats. * * * * * PALEY.