Ask of the winds, that far around

With fragments strewed the sea.

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,

That well had borne their part; But the noblest thing that perished there, Was that young and faithful heart !

HEMANS.

MY BROTHERS GRAVE.

The following lines were suggested by some remarks

made in the letter of a child of ten years old, in allusion to the grave of an infant brother, for whom he cherished a deep affection.

I RECOLLECT my brother's grave,

A simple grassy mound-
Above it tall trees gently wave,

And daisies bloom around.

I used to gather sweet wild flowers,

Wet with the morning dew,
And in the pleasant summer hours
That little

When hot and wearied with my play

I sought the hallow'd sod, And happy thoughts would o'er me stray,

Of earth, and heaven, and God.

At twilight, too, when all was still,

Save the low murmuring breeze; Fancy my chasten'd heart would fill

With landscapes snch as these :

A flowery vale-with running streams,

O’er which the sun shone bright; And Angel forms, like those in dreams

We see sometimes at night,

Walk'd there; and little children, too,

Play'd all the live-long day Where buttercups and violets grew,

As if 'twere always May.

And happy voices sweetly sang,

And music fill'd the air,
And through the flow'ry valley rang,

For sorrow dwelt not there.

And one there was who seemed to speak;

He smiled, and waved his hand;

1

I thought he said “ Sweet brother, seek

To reach this happy land.”

I see not now that little

grave, For we no longer dwell Where I can visit it as once,

And yet I love it well.

My playmates, when in childish glee,

Ye to the churchyard go,
If ye have ever loved me,

Think who lies there so low.

Oh, tread not on my brother's grave,

Or pluck in wanton mood
The daisies that so sweetly bloom,
In that loved solitude !

C. PHILLIPS.

WANT OF THOUGHT.

Time to me, this truth hath taught,

'Tis a truth that's worth revealing ; More offend from want of thought,

Than from any want of feeling.

If advice we would convey,

There's a time we should convey it ;
If we've but a word to say,
There's a time in which to

say

it.

Oft unknowingly the tongue

Touches on a chord so aching,
That a word or accent wrong,
Pains the heart almost to breaking.

SWAIN.

WHO LOVES ME BEST ?

Who loves me best? My mother sweet,
Whose
every

look with love's replete ;
Who held me, an infant on her knee,
Who hath ever watched me tenderly ;
And yet I've heard my

Who loves me best? My father dear,
Who loveth to have me always near ;
He whom I fly each eve to meet,
When pass'd away is the noontide heat ;
Who from the bank where the sunbeam lies,
Brings me the wild-wood strawberries.
O! he is dear as my mother to me,
But he will perish, even as she.

Who loves me best? The gentle dove
That I have tamed with my childish love,
That every one save myself doth fear,
Whose soft coo soundeth when I come near ;
Yet, perhaps it loves me because 1 bring
To its cage the drops of the clearest spring,
And hang green branches around the door ;
Something surely must love me more.

Who loves me best? My sister fair,
With her laughing eyes and clustering hair,
Who flowers around my head doth twine,
Who presseth her rosy lips to mine ;
Who singeth me songs in her artless glee,
Can any love me better than she ?
Yet when I ask'd, that sister confess'd
Of all she did not love me best.