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SELECT POETRY

A second morning’s light expands,
Unfound the infant fair;

And Wilhelm’s household wring their hands,
Abandoned to despair.

But, haply, a poor artisan
Searched ceaselessly, till he
Found safe asleep the little one,

Beneath a beechen tree.

His hand still grasped a bunch of flowers ;
And—true, though wondrous—near,

To sentry his reposing hours,
There stood a female deer,

Who dipped her horns at all that passed
The spot where Wilhelm lay;

Till force was had to hold her fast,
And bear the boy away.

Hail! sacred love of childhood—hail !
How sweet it is to trace
Thine instinct in Creation’s scale,
Even ‘neath the human race.
To this poor wanderer of the wild,
Speech, reason were unknown—
And yet she watched a sleeping child,
As if it were her own !
Campbell.

THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

Brrps, joyous birds of the wandering wing!
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring?