My onward path I still pursued,

Till the high noon-tide sun was o'er me;
- though changed in form and mood-
That youth and river seemed before me.

And now

The deepened stream more proudly swept,
Though chafed by many a vessel's prow;
The youth in manhood's vigor stepped,

But care was chiseled on his brow.

Still on the stream he kept his eye,

And wooed the bubbles to the shore ; And snatched them, as they circled by, Though bursting as they burst before. Once more we parted yet again

We met

though now 't was evening dim: Onward the waters rushed amain, And vanished o'er a cataract's brim.

Though fierce and wild the raging surge,
The bubble-chaser still was there;
And bending o'er the cataract's verge,
Clutched at the gaudy things of air.
With staff in hand and tottering knee,
Upon the slippery brink he stood;
And watched, with doting ecstasy,

Each wreath of foam that rode the flood!

"One bubble more!" I heard him call,
And saw his eager fingers play;
He snatched-and down the roaring fall,
With the last bubble, passed away!

SONG OF THE MANCHESTER FACTORY GIRL.

BY JOHN H. WARLAND.

O sing me a song of the Factory Girl,

So merry and glad and free

The bloom on her cheeks, of health how it speaks!·

O a happy creature is she!

She tends the loom, she watches the spindle,

And cheerfully talketh away;

Mid the din of wheels, how her bright eyes kindle ! And her bosom is ever gay.

O sing me a song of the Factory Girl,
Who hath breathed our mountain air,
She toils for her home, and the joys to come
To the loved ones gathered there.

She tends the loom, she watches the spindle,
And fancies her mother near

How glows her heart, as her bright eyes kindle,
And she thinks of her sisters dear!

O sing me a song of the Factory Girl,
As she walks her spacious hall,

And trims the rose, and the orange that blows
In the window, scenting all.

She tends the loom, and watches the spindle,
And she skips in the mountain air;

I know by her eyes, as their bright lights kindle, That a queenly spirit is there.

O sing me the song of the Factory Girl,

Whose task is easy and light-
She toileth away, till the evening gray,

And her sleep is sweet at night.

She tends the loom, and watches the spindle,
And O! she is honest and free

I know by her laugh, as her bright eyes kindle,
That few are more happy than she.

O sing me the song of the Factory Girl,
Whose fabric clothes the world;

From the king and his peers, to the jolly tars,
With our flag on all seas unfurled.

From China's gold seas, to the tainted breeze

That sweeps the smokened room

Where "God save the Queen" to cry are seen
The SLAVES of the British loom.

O sing me the song of the Factory Girl!
Link not her name with the SLAVES,
She is brave and free as the old elm tree,

That over her homestead waves.

She tends the loom, she watches the spindle,
And scorns the laugh and the sneer;
I know by her lips as her bright eyes kindle,
That a free-born spirit is here.

Her name has rung, her deeds have been sung,
O'er the land and the waters blue.

She tends the loom, she watches the spindle,
And her words are cheerful and gay,

O give me her smile, as her bright eyes kindle,
And she toils and sings away.

Who, with treasures as rare, is more free from care
Than a queen upon her throne.

She tends the loom, and watches the spindle,

And parts her glossy hair,

I know by her smile, as her bright eyes kindle,
That a cheerful spirit is there.

Like a merry bird, shall her song be heard,

Where'er sweet labor has smiled.

From our forests green, where the axe hath been,
And the waters dance in the sun,

Through the southern clime to the thunder chime
Of the surging Oregon.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

Poet, (for that name is thine,)
As I read thy thoughtful line,

Where great thoughts like suns do shine,

It is now two hundred years since the foundation of Harvard College. The graduates of this venerable institution will gather themselves with one accord to lay on her altar their tribute of gratitude; to thank God for the many blessings of which He has seen fit to make this college the source, and to implore his blessing that their successors may be more faithful than they have been to their duty as scholars and as Christians. The first, at least, the most natural feeling, which rises in the heart on such an occasion, is a private one, that of deep consciousness that it has not fulfilled all that it promised itself of usefulness to others, that it has not acquired all that it hoped for itself, when first its possessor came to inhabit these hallowed walls. How many hearts have here beat high with the hope of distinction,-alas! how many such hopes have been blasted. Many a spirit has sunk beneath the excitement, never to rise again, and no one has gained all that it hoped for. Let not this reflection sadden us, however. If there has been much of disappointment, there has also been much of promise fulfilled. Here, how many have gathered strength for action or for suffering, and learned their