TO THE CRICKET. BY THE REVEREND THOMAS COLE. SPRIGHTLY Cricket, chirking still Those with whom thou dost reside. Thou, a harmless inmate deem'd, Thou art happier, happier far, LYRE. F 98 TO THE CRICKET. For a summer month or two Every day and every night SONG. BY MISS LANDON. ARE other eyes beguiling, Love? Are other white arms wreathing, Love? Are other fond sighs breathing, Love? Ah, heed them not; but call to mind The arms, the sighs, you leave behindAll thine, Love. Then gaze not on other eyes, Love; You may find many a brighter one Than your own rose, but there are none All thine own, 'mid gladness, Love; Though changed from all that now thou art, RECOLLECTIONS. I'VE pleasant thoughts, that memory brings, in moments free from care, Of a fairy-like and laughing girl, with roses in her hair; Her smile was like the starlight of summer's softest skies, And worlds of joyousness there shone from out her witching eyes. Her looks were looks of melody, her voice was like the swell Of sudden music, gentle notes, that of deep gladness tell; She came like spring, with pleasant sounds of sweetness and of mirth, And her thoughts were those wild, flowery thoughts, that linger not on earth. 100 RECOLLECTIONS. A quiet goodness beam'd amid the beauty of her face, And all she said and did was with its own instinctive grace; She seem'd as if she thought the world a good and pleasant one, And her light spirit saw no ill, in aught beneath the sun. I've dream'd of just such creatures, but they never met my view 'Mid the sober, dull reality, in their earthly form and hue. And her smile came gently over me, like spring's first scented airs, And made me think life was not all a wilderness of cares. I know not of her destiny, or where her smile now strays, But the thought of her comes o'er me, with my own lost sunny days, With moonlight hours, and far off friends, and many pleasant things That have gone the way of all the earth, on Time's resistless wings. THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. BY D. M. MOIR. Man comes into the world like morning mushrooms, soon thrusting up their heads into the air, and conversing with their kindred of the same production, and as soon they turn into dust and forgetfulness.-JEREMY TAYLOR. WHO sleeps below?-who sleeps below?— Ask of the breezes as they blow, Say, do they heed, or hear thy call? A hundred summer suns have shower'd Their fostering warmth, and radiance bright; A hundred winter storms have lour'd With piercing floods, and hues of night, Was he of high or low degree? Did grandeur smile upon his lot? Dwelt he within some lonely cot, Say, died he ripe, and full of years, |