And then a softer image it supplied,

For ever bending o'er that crystal tide,

For ever list'ning to its liquid chime,

Though all the sounds and sights of summer time-
A sky all glory, and an earth all bloom,
Gales breathing only music and perfume
Seem'd all intent to win its love, but no
It mark'd alone that streamlet's gentle flow.

Once ('tis long since) when Fancy thus had been
Framing sweet visions in that leafy scene,
I took my lyre, and bade each answering chord
Its silence break, her musings to record.
I was a mourner then, I wept the dead,
Yea some I lov'd were not, and I had said

Too rashly said!— that joy would ne'er relume
A heart whose hopes were buried in the tomb.
Sad was my lay at first; but as I pour'd
My feelings forth, my spirit seem'd restor❜d
To wonted calmness, for I thought the while
On one whose gentle voice and kindly smile
Were mine, still mine. I touch'd my harp again
Less sadly than before--and such my strain.

And, said I, joy's bright sun had set,

No more to gild my path of shade! Well, on eve's dewy coronet

Shine moon and star when sunbeams fade.

Then will I not desponding grieve,

Though dim my future path may be,

For such as are those lights to eve
Shall be thy smile of love to me.

And, said I, joy's gay flow'rs no more

Will grace

Well be it so

such sunless heart as mine!

the sweetest flower

Not oft in gaudy tints doth shine. The wild rose on the storm-beat rock

Than garden queen I'd rather see, And such, mid sorrow's tempest-shock, Yea, such is now thy love to me.

When musing on the dead, my eye
Half wistful turns to holier sphere;

I think of thee, and feel a tie

Still sweetly hold me captive here. Should that too break-oh! then most lone, Most desolate my heart would be;

My bosom's evening star were gone,
And lost lifes sweetest flower to me.

Yon alder leaning o'er the brook
Methinks doth type of love supply;
Above, around, nought wins its look

From the clear stream that murmurs by. And thus when thou art near I seem

To have no thought for aught but thee,Thou art the star, the flow'r, the stream, The all of earthly joy to me.

THE WEEPING WILLOW.

SALIX BABYLONICA.

66

By the waters of Babylon, there we sat down, yea we wept when we remembered Zion.

"We hanged our harps on the willows that grew in the midst thereof.”

AFTER contemplating the solemn sadness of this touching picture drawn by the pen of inspiration, every other association connected with the willow must not only appear insipid, but almost impertinent, except, indeed, such as may be borrowed from the same hallowed

source.

Every production of nature alluded to in the Bible is at once invested with a sacred character, and possesses an indescribable interest. It is this which gives the willow a claim on our regard very far beyond what it might derive from the graceful effect of its drooping boughs, or indeed from any other quality by which it is distinguished. At the Feast of Tabernacles, when, in commemoration of their fathers dwelling in tents during their forty years' sojourn in the wilderness,