Yet thou can'st glory in a noble birth. As rose the sea-born Venus from the wave, So didst thou rise to life; the teeming earth, The living water, and the fresh air gave A portion of their elements to create Thy little form, though beauty dwells not there. So lean and gaunt, that economic fate Meant thee to feed on music or on air. Our vein's pure juices were not made for thee, Thou living, singing, stinging atomy. The hues of dying sunset are most fair, And twilight's tints just fading into night, Most dusky soft, and so thy soft notes are By far the sweetest when thou tak'st thy flight. The swan's last note is sweetest, so is thine; Sweet are the wind harp's tones at distance heard; 'Tis sweet in distance at the day's decline, To hear the opening song of evening's bird. But notes of harp or bird at distance float Less sweetly on the ear than thy last note. The autumn winds are wailing: 'tis thy dirge; Its leaves are sear, prophetic of thy doom. Soon the cold rain will whelm thee, as the surge Whelms the tost mariner in its watery tomb, Then soar, and sing thy little life away! Albeit thy voice is somewhat husky now. 'Tis well to end in music life's last day, Of one so gleeful and so blithe as thou: For thou wilt soon live through its joyous hours, And pass away with Autumn's dying flowers. INCONSTANCY. BY J. R. DRAKE. Yes! I swore to be true, I allow, And I meant it, but, some how or other, The seal of that amorous vow Was pressed on the lips of another. Yet I did but as all would have done, For where is the being, dear cousin, Content with the beauties of one When he might have the range of a dozen? Young Love is a changeable boy, And the gem of the sea-rock is like him, For he gives back the beams of his joy To each sunny eye that may strike him. From a kiss of a zephyr and rose Love sprang in an exquisite hour, And fleeting and sweet, heaven knows, Is this child of a sigh and a flower. THE CALLICOON IN AUTUMN. BY A. B. STREET. Far in the forest's heart, unknown, Except to sun and breeze, Where solitude her dreaming throne Has held for centuries; Chronicled by the rings and moss That tell the flight of years across The seamed and columned trees, This lovely streamlet glides along With tribute of eternal song! Now, stealing through its thickets deep In which the wood-duck hides, Now, picturing in its basin sleep Its green pool-hollowed sides, Here, through the pebbles slow it creeps, There, 'mid some wild abyss it sweeps, And foaming, hoarsely chides; Then slides so still, its gentle swell Scarce ripples round the lily's bell.