in His joyful praises." From Madeley, Mr. Fletcher, whose birthplace was among Swiss mountains, would seek this height, with that longing after an extended view and a distant horizon which always holds sway in the hearts of those who have dwelt among hills. Yonder quaint, square church-tower of Wrockwardine, almost hidden among trees, reminds us of Mr. Gilpin, whose elegant edition of the "Pilgrim's Progress" adapted that incomparable dream to the refined tastes of the higher classes, and added to the popularity it has now attained. That low ridge of uplands, twelve miles away, is Hawkstone, where Rowland Hill was born, and where he entered upon his useful but eccentric course by preaching to the servants and tenants in the park, heedless of his father's remonstrances and prohibitions; and within a mile of Hawkstone is Hodnet, the birthplace and residence for many years of Reginald Heber, bishop of Calcutta, famous alike for his learning, refinement, and piety. Mrs. Sherwood and Mrs. Cameron, and the still fondly-remembered Vicar of Wellington, Mr. Eyton-all of these have stood where we stand; have gazed as we gaze; have uttered the old phrase, familiar in the mouths of all Salopians, "All friends round the Wrekin;" themselves united by one common band of love, though separated by time and disciplined by different circumstances, yet all of them being one in Him who is one with the Father.

The sun of our Summer day is setting. There is an abrupt line across the western sky. Above are masses of cloud, heavy and leaden, with lurid streaks behind them; below, the palest tints of green, gold, and grey, painting soft and tiny cloudlets, and little banners of floating vapour, with the most delicate hues. And before them, like a thick fringe from the leaden mass above, there are long pencils of golden light, darkening into shadows at intervals, which slope down upon the plain, and the village churches, and the distant spires of Shrewsbury : when we were children we called them the open windows of heaven. The doves in the coppices have not ceased their melancholy murmuring for the last hour; but now the twilight is falling; and alone, between plantations of fir-trees, with their mast-like shafts growing black in the gathering darkness, we shall descend the hill, ourselves quiet in the deepening stillness, and feeling in our hearts that

"Hills draw like heaven,

And stronger sometimes, holding out their hands,
To pull you from the vile flats up to them.”

The sun had found out my secret,
And looked down straight at me,
And I-I turned my head away,
For he looked reprovingly;

"I am sorry to see," he seemed to say,
With a saintly gravity.

And I cannot tell who told him,

But I know the wind well knew,

For he took up the scents he was going to leave, And went on his way anew,

And a little sweetness that stayed behind,

Said, "I did not come for you."

So I went on up to my chamber-
My little white chamber of bliss;
A fly flew out as I opened the door,
And my heart was vexed at this-
That the very fly did not choose to stay
In the room with my naughtiness!

I sat down close to the window,

At the foot of the little white bed; The fields were happy down below, And the wide sky overhead,

And the trees a-tremble with joy between"It is quite too bad," I said.

I doubt if a fairer Summer day

Came all the Summer long ;

The whole earth seemed like a mother's lap,
For a soul that had done no wrong;

But the sun was all too bright for me,
And the woodbine smell too strong.

I think I was almost angry

With the roses pink and white, I had gathered out of the hedges In the cool walk over-night, Before this misery came to-day,

To cloud each pleasant sight.

SORROW UNDER THE SUN.

So I moved the little stumpy jar
From its window-sill away,

And took its place myself, and leaned
Out into the perfumed day :—
As if I were fit to take the place
Of anything good or gay!

I sat and thought of them all down-stairs,
And how unkind they were;

And the ancient angers of all my life

Seemed all in my heart astir;

And I blew with a breath from the window-ledge The spider's gossamer.

A single delicate line was left,

And it floated far, far out;

And the wind played games with the other end,
And wafted it up and about;

And I wanted the weak thread not to break,

And watched it in fear and doubt.

And I saw how fair the silver line
Against the greenness showed-
The heavy green of the garden trees

That stretched half over the road:

They seemed quite tired of their own great boughs,

And bending under the load.

And my eye roved out like the spider's thread,

Out into the landscape wide,

And over the fields of low green corn,

And down to the river-side;

And I saw there were figures on the bridge,
O'er the slow and weedy tide.

Yes, there were the father and mother,
And there were the sisters twain,
And there was Bertie with them, too,
And they seemed all happy again.

I saw their gladness with a pang,
And I fear it was more than pain.

It made me angry to see them, (It was very wrong, I knew,)

And I watched them with a sore, sore heart, As they wended the long lane through : They were getting the small convolvulus, That under the hedges grew.

And Bertie-oh! I saw him go

To Mamma with his nosegay wild,

And I knew by the way she held her head,
That she looked at him and smiled;
And I almost seemed to hear her voice,
With its loving "Thank you, child."

But I grew more sad than angry,

When they were gone out of sight, When the winding lane had wound them in, And hidden them from me quite; Then a butterfly crossed the garden grass, And I turned to watch its flight.

And by the time that butterfly

Had done with the great flower-bed, A little genuine grief had come,

And turned into tears, and was shed:

"I cannot at all think Bertie right, But I know I was wrong," I said.

I moved to the side of the window,
And looked toward the low hill's brow,
Where, under the narrow shadow,

Lay here and there a cow;

And I thought of a dear, dear dairy,
That is shut for always, now.

It is shut to me for always,

No entrance I now can claim!

And so, with the thought of her dairy,
The thought of Aunt Rhoda came;
And I went and got the little book
In which she wrote my name.