Repentance.

THE fields which with covetous spirit we sold

Those beautiful fields, the delight of the dayWould have brought us more good than a burden of gold,

Could we but have been as contented as they.

When the troublesome tempter beset us, said I,

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“Let him come, with his purse proudly grasped in his

hand;

But, Allan, be true to me; Allan, we'll die

Before he shall go with an inch of the land !"

There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their bowers,
Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide ;

We could do what we chose with the land, it was ours;
And for us the brook murmured that ran by its side.

But now we are strangers, go early or late;

And often, like one over-burdened with sin,

With my hand on the latch of the half-opened gate,

I look at the fields, but I cannot go in !

When I walk by the hedge on a bright summer's day, Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's tree,

A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say,

"What ails you, that you must come creeping to

me!"

With our pastures about us we could not be sad,

Our comfort was near if we ever were crost;

But the comfort, the blessings, and wealth that we had,

We slighted them all, and our birthright was lost.

Oh, ill-judging sire of an innocent son,

Who must now be a wanderer! - but peace to that

strain !

Think of evening's repose, when our labour was done, The Sabbath's return, and its leisure's soft chain !

And in sickness, if night had been sparing of sleep, How cheerful at sunrise the hill where I stood, Looking down on the kine, and our treasure of sheep, That besprinkled the field; 'twas like youth in my

blood.

Now I cleave to the house, and am dull as a snail; And oftentimes hear the church-bell with a sigh, That follows the thought-We've no land in the vale, Save six feet of earth where our forefathers lie!

To the Cuckoo.

O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard,

I hear thee, and rejoice!

O cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering voice?

While I am lying on the grass,
Thy twofold shout I hear;

That seems to fill the whole air's space,
As loud far off as near.

Though babbling only, to the vale,

Of sunshine and of flowers,

Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No bird; but an invisible thing

A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days

I listened to; that cry

Which made me look a thousand ways,

In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove

Through woods and on the green;

And thou wert still a hope, a love

Still longed for, never seen.

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And I can listen to thee yet;

Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.

O blessed bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, faery place,

That is fit home for thee!

The Cottager to her Enfant.

THE days are cold, the nights are long,
The north-wind sings a doleful song;

Then hush again upon my breast,

All merry things are now at rest,
Save thee, my pretty love!

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth,

The crickets long have ceased their mirth;

There's nothing stirring in the house
Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse-
Then why so busy thou?

Nay, start not at that sparkling light,
'Tis but the moon that shines so bright
On the window-pane bedropped with rain.
Then, little darling! sleep again,

And wake when it is day.