XLVIII.-TELL ME, YE WINGED WINDS.

1. Tell me, ye winged winds,

That round my pathway roar,
Do you not know some spot
Where mortals weep no more?
Some lone and pleasant dell—
Some valley in the west,
Where free from toil and pain,
The weary soul may rest?

The loud wind softened to a whisper low,
And sighed for pity as it answered "No!"

2. Tell me, thou mighty deep,

Whose billows 'round me play,
Know'st thou some favored spot-
Some island, far away,

Where weary man might find
The bliss for which he sighs;

Where sorrow never lives,

And friendship never dies?

The loud waves rolling in perpetual flow,
Stopped for awhile, and sighed to answer-"No!"

3. And thou, serenest moon,

That with such holy face
Dost look upon the earth

Asleep in night's embrace,

Tell me, in all thy round

Hast thou not seen some spot
Where miserable man

Might find a happier lot?

Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe,

And a sweet voice, but sad, responded-"No!"

4. Tell me, my secret soul,

O, tell me, Hope and Faith,
Is there no resting-place

From sorrow, sin and death?
Is there no happy spot
Where man is fully blest,
Where grief may find a balm,

And weariness a rest?

Faith, Hope, and Love-best boons to mortals given,
Waved their bright wings and whispered "Yes, in
Heaven!"

CHARLES MACKAY.

XLIX. THE BOBOLINK.

1. The happiest bird of our spring, however, and one that rivals the European lark, in my estimation, is the boblincoln, or bobolink, as he is commonly called. He arrives at that choice portion of our year which, in this latitude, answers to the description of the month of May so often given by the poets. With us it begins about the middle of May, and lasts until nearly the middle of June.

2. Earlier than this winter is apt to return on its traces, and to blight the opening beauties of the year; and later than this, begin the parching and panting, and dissolving heats of summer. But in this genial interval, Nature is in all her freshness and fragrance: "the rains are over and gone, the flowers appear upon the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land.”

3. The trees are now in their fullest foliage and brightest verdure; the woods are gay with the clustered flowers of the laurel; the air is perfumed with the sweet

brier and the wild rose; the meadows are enameled with clover blossoms; while the young apple, the peach and the plum begin to swell, and the cherry to glow among the green leaves.

4. This is the chosen season of revelry of the bobolink. He comes amid the pomp and fragrance of the season; his life seems all sensibility and enjoyment, all song and sunshine. He is to be found in the soft bosoms of the freshest and sweetest meadows, and is most in song when the clover is in blossom. He perches on the topmost twig of a tree, or on some long, flaunting weed, and as he rises and sinks with the breeze, pours forth a succession of rich tinkling notes, crowding one upon another like the outpouring melody of the sky-lark, and possessing the same rapturous character.

5. Sometimes he pitches from the summit of a tree, begins his song as soon as he gets upon the wing, and flutters tremulously down to the earth, as if overcome with ecstasy at his own music. Sometimes he is in pursuit of his mate; always in full song, as if he would win her by his melody; and always with the same appearance of intoxication and delight.

6. Of all the birds of our groves and meadows, the bobolink was the envy of my boyhood. He crossed my path in the sweetest weather, and the sweetest season of the year, when all nature called to the fields, and the rural feeling throbbed in every bosom; but when I, luckless urchin! was doomed to be mewed up during the livelong day in a school-room.

7. It seemed as if the little varlet mocked at me, as he flew by in full song, and sought to taunt me with his happier lot. O, how I envied him! No lessons, no task, no school!—nothing but holiday, frolic, green fields, and fine weather. Had I been then more versed in poetry I

might have addressed him in the words of Logan to the cuckoo :

8. "Sweet bird, thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year.

9. "O, could I fly, I'd fly with thee;
We'd make on joyful wing,
Our annual visit round the globe,
Companions of the spring."

WASHINGTON IRVING.

L.-THE SISTERS.

FIRST SPEAKER.

1. I go, sweet sister! yet my love would linger with thee fain,

And unto every parting gift some deep remembrance chain;

Take, then, the braid of eastern pearl, that once I loved to wear,

And with it bind, for festal scenes, the dark waves of thy hair;

Its pale, pure brightness will beseem those raven tresses well,

And I shall need such pomp no more in the lone

convent cell.

SECOND SPEAKER.

2. O, sister, sister! wherefore thus?-why part from kindred love?

Through festal scenes, when thou art gone. my steps no more shall move.

How could I bear a lonely heart amidst a reckless throng?

I should but miss earth's dearest voice in every tone

of song!

Keep, keep the braid of eastern pearl! and let me proudly twine

Its wreath once more around that brow, that queenly brow of thine.

3. O! wouldst thou seek a wounded bird from shel-, ter to detain?

Or wouldst thou call a spirit freed to weary life" again?

Sweet sister! take the golden cross that I have worn so long,

And bathed with many a burning tear, for secret woe and wrong!

It could not still my beating heart, but may it be a sign

Of peace and hope, my gentle one, when meekly pressed to thine!

SECOND SPEAKER.

4. Take back, take back the cross of gold, our mother's gift to thee;

It would but of this parting hour a bitter token be! With funeral splendor to mine eyes, it would but sadly shine,

And tell of earthly treasure lost-of joy no longer

mine!

O, sister! if thy heart be thus with voiceless grief oppressed,

Where couldst thou pour it forth so well as on thy sister's breast?