I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket arose from the well.

TO A COUGH.

On being ordered by physicians to pass the winter at Bourdeaux

or Madeira, in consequence of a severe cough,

MISS LOUISA H. SHERIDAN.

"Ma'am, that is a very bad cough of yours,"

"Sir, I regret to say it is the very best I have "

Do cease, hollow sound! you alarm e'en the merry,-
You banish all spirit away from "pale Sheri."
Strange! that Sheri, in order with colour to glow,
Must change to Madeira or else to Bordeaux.
But since a long voyage seems the only resort,
When at sea how the Sheri will long for the Port!

MORNING IN SUMMER.

ROBERT WOOD. FROM BRADSHAW'S JOURNAL," 1842.

SEE, the mountains are gilded, the clouds dazzling bright, And the curtain of mist drawn away,

As gay morning bursts out from the arms of old night, To give all her charms to young day.

Now the moon veils her face, and the last lingering star
Shuts his lamp, and withdraws in disguise;

While Apollo is yoking the steeds to his car,
To run his swift course through the skies.

Now a bright stream of sunshine spreads over the plain; Yon hills are all bathed in the light,

While the billows which sparkle and foam on the main, Are dancing with joy at the sight.

And the lily is drest in her grandest array,
Which she neither has toil'd for nor spun ;

While the young roses blush, half ashamed to display
Their beauties at first to the sun.

See, the shepherd is up, and has gone from his cot, As cheerful and blithe as the norn;

He has left his couch early, and why may he not

Think on late-rising sluggards with scorn?

Awake thou that sleepest, and arise from thy bed, And hie to the hill to behold

The mo ning's fresh picture before thee outspread, All framed with a margin of gold!

While the skylark is singing and mounting aloft, Above all the musical throng;

And while echo is blending in harmony soft,

The many new versions of song.

Then shall we not join in a chorus so sweet,

To praise the Creator above;

Whose works are with wonder and wisdom replete, And crown'd with his mercy and love.

THE PASSAGE.

LUDWIG UHLAND.

MANY a year is in its grave
Since I cross'd this restless wave;

And the evening, fair as ever,
Shines on ruin, rock, and river.

Then in this same boat beside
Sat two comrades old and tried;
One with all a father's truth,
One with all the fire of youth.

One on earth in silence wrought,
And his grave in silence sought;
But the younger brighter form
Pass'd in battle and in storm.

So, whene'er I turn my eye

Back upon the days gone by,

Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me,

Friends that closed their days before me.

But what binds us friend to friend,
But that soul with soul can blend?
Soul-like were those hours of yore;
Let us walk in soul once more.

Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee,
Take, I give it willingly;

For, invisible to thee,

Spirits twain have cross'd with me.

"AN INDEPENDENT POET.-Uhland, the German poet, has refused to accept the Order of Merit offered him by the King of Prussia on the recommendation of Baron Humboldt. The reason he assigns is, that the king's government has persecuted his political friends. Uhland is a great liberal, and is a member of the Chamber of Representatives of Wurtemburg." Manchester Advertiser,

January, 1854.