What a bliss to press the pillow
Of a cottage-chamber bed
And to listen to the patter

Of the soft rain overhead!

Every tinkle on the shingles
Has an echo in the heart,
And a thousand dreamy fancies
Into busy being start,
And a thousand recollections

Weave their air-threads into woof,

As I listen to the patter

Of the rain upon the roof.

Now in memory comes my mother,
As she used long years agone,

To regard the darling dreamers
Ere she left them till the dawn:

O! I see her leaning o'er me,
As I list to this refrain
Which is played upon the shingles
By the patter of the rain.

Then my little seraph sister,

With her wings and waving hair, And her star-eyed cherub brotherA serene angelic pair!— Glide around my wakeful pillow, With their praise or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmur

Of the soft rain on the roof.

And another comes, to thrill me
With her eyes' delicious blue;
And I mind not, musing on her,

That her heart was all untrue:
I remember but to love her

With a passion kin to pain,

And my heart's quick pulses vibrate
To the patter of the rain.

Art hath naught of tone or cadence
That can work with such a spell
In the soul's mysterious fountains,
Whence the tears of rapture well,
As that melody of nature,

That subdued, subduing strain
Which is played upon the shingles
By the patter of the rain.

Millie Minkie.

COATES KINNEY,

WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town,
Up-stairs and doon-stairs, in his nicht-gown,
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock,

"Are the weans in their bed?-for it 's now ten o'clock."

Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben?

The cat 's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen,
The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep;
But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep.

Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue! glow'rin' like the moon,
Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon,

Rumblin' tumblin' roun' about, crowin' like a cock,
Skirlin' like a kenna-what-wauknin' sleepin' folk.

Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean 's in a creel!
Waumblin' aff a body's knee like a vera eel,

Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums,—
Hey, Willie Winkie !--See, there he comes!

Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean,

A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane,
That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he 'll close an ee,
But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.
WILLIAM Miller.

The Old Canoe.

WHERE the rocks are gray and the shore is steep,
And the waters below look dark and deep,
Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride,
Leans gloomily over the murky tide,

Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank,

And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank, Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through,—

There lies at its moorings the old canoe.

The useless paddles are idly dropped,

Like a sea-bird's wings that the storm had lopped,
And crossed on the railing one o'er one,

Like the folded hands when the work is done;
While busily back and forth between
The spider stretches his silvery screen,

And the solemn owl, with his dull "too-hoo,"
Settles down on the side of the old canoe.

The stern, half sunk in the slimy wave,
Rots slowly away in its living grave,

And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay,
Hiding its mouldering dust away,

Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower
Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower;

While many a blossom of loveliest hue
Springs up o'er the stern of the old canoe.

The currentless waters are dead and still,
But the light wind plays with the boat at will,
And lazily in and out again

It floats the length of the rusty chain,
Like the weary march of the hands of time,
That meet and part at the noontide chime;
And the shore is kissed at each turning anew,
By the drippling bow of the old canoe.

Oh, many a time, with a careless hand,

I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand,
And paddled it down where the stream runs quick,
Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick,

And laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side,
And looked below in the broken tide,

To see that the faces and boats were two,
That were mirrored back from the old canoe.

But now, as I lean o'er the crumbling side,
And look below in the sluggish tide,
The face that I see there is graver grown,
And the laugh that I hear has a soberer tone,
And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings
Have grown familiar with sterner things.

But I love to think of the hours that sped

As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed,
Ere the blossoms waved, or the green grass grew
O'er the mouldering stern of the old canoe.

EMILY REBECCA PAGE.

Only Waiting.

A very old man in an alms-house was asked what he was doing now He replied, "Only waiting."

ONLY waiting till the shadows

Are a little longer grown;

Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown;

Till the night of earth is faded

From the heart once full of day;
Till the stars of heaven are breaking
Through the twilight soft and gray.

Only waiting till the reapers

Have the last sheaf gathered home;

For the summer-time is faded,

And the autumn winds have come.
Quickly, reapers, gather quickly

The last ripe hours of my heart,
For the bloom of life is withered,
And I hasten to depart.

Only waiting till the angels

Open wide the mystic gate,
At whose feet I long have lingered,
Weary, poor, and desolate.

Even now I hear the footsteps,
And their voices far away;
If they call me, I am waiting,
Only waiting to obey.

Only waiting till the shadows
Are a little longer grown;
Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown;
Then from out the gathered darkness,
Holy, deathless stars shall rise,
By whose light my soul shall gladly
Tread its pathway to the skies.

FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE.

The Burial of Moses.

And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over agains Beth-peor; ont no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." DEUT xxxiv: 6.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave;

But no man dug that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e'er,