They woo him, whispering lovely tales
Of many a flowering glade,

And fount's bright gleam in island-vales
Of golden-fruited shade;

Across his lone ship's wake they bring
A vision and a glow of spring.

And, oh! ye masters of the lay,
Come not even thus your songs,
That meet us on life's weary way,
Amidst her toiling throngs?
Yes! o'er the spirit thus they bear
A current of celestial air.

Their power is from the brighter clime

That in our birth hath part,

Their tones are of the world, which time
Seres not within the heart;

They tell us of the living light
In its green places ever bright.

They call us, with a voice divine,
Back to our early love,-

Our vows of youth at many a shrine,
Whence far and fast we rove:

Welcome high thought, and holy strain, That make us truth's and heaven's again! Literary Souvenir.

THE PARSON'S VISITOR.

A LYRICAL BALLAD.

AN almost coldness autumn sky,
Elastic freshness in the air,
And yet the breeze but lazily
Uplifts the gossamer,—

Uplifts that mazy roof, whereon
A thousand shuttles have been piled;
O'er blade and stalk, o'er clod and stone,
It spreads on every side.

Turn to the sun,—and it will shine,

A fairy web of tapestry

Lighted in one far-stretching line,

Just like a moonlight sea.

Look back,—e'en there, their trammels slight The spinners have as thickly spun ;

Yet they elude our prying sight,

Save when they meet the sun.

Strange work, ye tiny artisans,
Is this of yours, on dale and down!
The nat'ralist scarce understands
More of it than the clown.

Pardon that we your meshes sweep,
For yon old elms our steps invite,
Round which a troop of swallows keep
A restless, graceful flight.

It is my chimney's full-fledged brood,
With sooty head and corslet grey,
And here they ply, for insect food,
Their skill in falconry.

Feed on, glad birds, you will not long
Scud round these meads in rapid ring;
A call is heard your sires among,

For each to imp his wing.

The summons has arrived; for flight
Our summer visitors prepare:
I saw a concave yesternight
Assembled in the air,

Incessant twittering filled the sky,
Just as the first star sparkled forth;
I knew it as their gathering-cry,
Before they quit the North.

Twilight's grey vault was all astir
With the black swarm that speckled it,
Not long will they their voyage defer,
Their clarions sound retreat.

Their privilege I envy not,

Of living, wheresoe'er they roam,

In summer sunshine,- since 't is bought At the expense of home!

Strangers ye are―itinerants-
Pilgrims, that wend from feast to feast-
An annual caravan, that haunts

This pleasant stage for rest.

No wanderer I-me 't would not suit
To have my sensibilities

Scattered, where they would bear no fruit, 'Neath ever-shifting skies;

Plant-like, once fixed, I joy to spread
The fibres of intense affection

O'er one small circuit, where they feed
On sight and recollection.

L

To-morrow comes,-the swallow race
Reck not, they leave these scenes behind,
While I hope here through life to pass,
And here a grave to find.

See, from these elms the bounds you trace
Which girdle in my parsonage;
Own, friend,- that in a pleasant place
Hath fall'n my heritage!

Unhasped, there swings my rustic gate;
Enter, and see what, in his wane,
The ripening sun hath done of late
Within my small domain.

My shrubs encroach upon my

walks

My flower-beds are a wilderness
Of seeded husks and rampant stalks

A tangled, self-willed mass.

The vine, that wraps my wall, and craves
For entrance at each casement nook,
Has lost the deep green of its leaves,
And wears a tarnished look;

The clusters now more obvious are,
Each venturing from its summer hold,
Mark what a sunward tinge they bear-
A flush of flamy gold.

Nor let me, thankless, fail to point
That other vine, whose lowlier stems

Are hung at every knot and joint
With amethystine gems.

Live we not in a verdant bower?

That calm delight of Paradise,

Which flowed from tending fruit and flower, My garden-plot supplies.

-Such were the topics which obtained
Place in our desultory talk,

As, followed by a college friend,

I led the homeward walk.

It was by merest accident

That I had won him for a guest,

For, when I met him, he was bent
On travel to the West.

My saunter had conducted me
Where the mail passes every day,—
I saw him in it, and my plea
Persuaded him to stay.

He still was dwelling lingeringly
In Oxford's crowded solitude

("T is such to yearning hearts), while I
Had left the brotherhood;

Long left the college, well content
To take this pastoral benefice,

And gained my Mary's frank consent
An humble board to bless.

Studies severe, since we had met,
Had wrought upon his every feature,
Furrowing a polished brow,- and yet
No book-worm he by nature.

Pure thoughts, quick feelings, homage high For Nature's every oracle,

These had been his-and did not die

In his monastic cell.

Such was the friend to whom my stock
Of simple pleasures I produced,

Nor feared to feel the numbing shock
Of sympathy refused.