JOHN BOWRING. JOHN BOWRING was born in Exeter, October 17, 1792. He began the study of languages at an early age, and translated many of the popular poems of various European countries. He edited the Westminster Review from 1825 till 1830. He travelled at various times on the Continent, once with a commission from the British Government relative to commercial affairs. He was twice a member of the House of Commons, and in 1849 was appointed British consul at Canton. He returned to England in 1853, and in 1854 was knighted and made Gov- | ernor of Hong-Kong. In 1856 he produced a sensation, and caused a ministerial crisis, by ordering an attack on the Chinese forts, in consequence of an insult to a Chinese vessel under British protection. For this action he was recalled. He published books of travels in Siam and the Philippine Islands, and a volume of poems entitled "Matins and Vespers" in 1833, which was republished in this country. He was the author of some of our best and most familiar hymns. He died November 22, 1872. His religious belief was Unitarian. THE WATCHMAN. WATCHMAN! tell us of the night, Aught of hope or joy foretell ?- Watchman! tell us of the night, Higher yet that star ascends.Traveller! blessedness and light, Peace and truth, its course portends!Watchman! will its beams alone Gild the spot that gave them birth ?Traveller! ages are its own; See, it bursts o'er all the earth! Watchman! tell us of the night, For the morning seems to dawn.Traveller! darkness takes its flight, Doubt and terror are withdrawn.Watchman! let thy wanderings cease; Hie thee to thy quiet home.Traveller! lo! the Prince of Peace, Lo! the Son of God is come! FROM THE RECESSES OF A LOWLY SPIRIT. FROM the recesses of a lowly spirit, We see thy hand-it leads us, it supports us; Oh, how long-suffering, Lord! but thou delightest To win with love the wandering: thou invitest, By smiles of mercy, not by frowns or terrors, Man from his errors. Father and Saviour! plant within each bosom The seeds of holiness, and bid them blossom In fragrance and in beauty bright and vernal, And spring eternal.. THE NIGHTINGALE. FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF GIL VINCENTE. THE rose looks out in the valley, To the rosy vale, where the nightingale The virgin is on the river-side, To the rosy vale, where the nightingale The fairest fruit her hand hath culled, 'T is for her lover all: Thither-yes! thither will I go, To the rosy vale, where the nightingale In her hat of straw, for her gentle swain, To the rosy vale, where the nightingale THE NIGHTINGALE. FROM THE DUTCH OF MARIA TESSELSCHADE VISSCHER. PRIZE thou the nightingale, Who soothes thee with his tale, A singing feather he-a winged and wandering sound; Whose tender carolling Sets all ears listening Unto that living lyre, They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command, Whence flow the airy notes his ecstasies inspire; All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light A glorious company of golden streams- Music of thousand tongues, formed by one tongue Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams? alone. O charming creature rare! Can aught with thee compare? Thrills for one month o' the year-is tranquil all the rest. Thee wondrous we may call Most wondrous this of all, That such a tiny throat But Thou to these art as the noon to night. Yes! as a drop of water in the sea, And what am I then?-Heaven's unnumbered host, Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed Is but an atom in the balance, weighed Should wake so loud a sound, and pour so loud Against Thy greatness-is a cipher brought a note. GOD. FROM THE RUSSIAN OF GABRIEL ROMANOWITCH O THOU eternal One! whose presence bright In its sublime research, philosophy Thou from primeval nothingness didst call Light-giving, life-sustaining potentate! Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround- And as the spangles in the sunny rays Against infinity! What am I then? Naught! Naught! But the effluence of Thy light divine, I am, O God! and surely Thou must be ! Thou art!-directing, guiding all-Thou art! The chain of being is complete in me— I can command the lightning, and am dust! Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest! God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar, JOHN CLARE. JOHN CLARE was born at Helpstone, Northamptonshire, July 13, 1793. His father was a farm-laborer. John worked "over-hours" to get money to pay for schooling, and it took the savings of two months to pay for the schooling of one. When he had learned to read he bought a second-hand copy of Thomson's "Seasons," and when he had become familiar with that he began to compose poetry. It is said that he was too poor to buy paper to write his poetry on, and was obliged to carry it in his memory. His themes were naturally the scenes and characters around him. Thus he passed thirteen years, working in the fields and making poems, until in 1818 his sonnet to the setting sun attracted | the attention of a bookseller at Stamford and led to the publication of his "Collection of Original Trifles," followed in 1820 by his "Poems descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery." His subsequent publications were "The Village Minstrel, and other Poems" (1821), and "The Rural Muse" (1836). He received numerous gifts from admirers of his peasant poetry, and an annuity of £45 was purchased for him. He married, and had a large family. But he finally fell into pecuniary difficulties, became mildly in sane, was confined for several years in an asylum, and died on May 19, 1864. His "Life and Remains," edited by J. L. Cherry, was published in London in 1873. FIRST LOVE'S RECOLLECTIONS. FIRST love will with the heart remain When its hopes are all gone by, As frail rose-blossoms still retain Their fragrance when they die : And joy's first dreams will haunt the mind With the shades 'mid which they sprung; As summer leaves the stems behind On which spring's blossoms hung. Mary, I dare not call thee dear, I felt a pride to name thy name, But now that pride hath flown, And burning blushes speak my shame That thus I love thee on. How loath to part, how fond to meet, At sunset with what eager feet Thy face was so familiar grown, Thyself so often nigh, A moment's memory when alone Would bring thee in mine eye; But now my very dreams forget That witching look to trace; Though there thy beauty lingers yet, It wears a stranger's face. When last that gentle cheek I prest, I little thought that seeming jest Even loftier hopes than ours; Spring bids full many buds to swell, That ne'er can grow to flowers. THE PRIMROSE. Welcome, pale primrose! starting up between O'erjoyed to see the flowers that truly bring The welcome news of sweet returning spring. JUNE. THERE with the scraps of songs, and laugh, and tale, He lightens annual toil, while merry ale Goes round, and glads some old man's heart to praise The threadbare customs of his early days: Healths of the best the cellar could supply; While sung the ancient swains, in uncouth rhymes, Songs that were pictures of the good old times. Though praise and pomp, to eke the strife, A still and quiet mind? I mourn not that my lot is low, I sigh not that Fate made me so, I am content for well I see What all at last shall find,That life's worst lot the best may be, If that's a quiet mind. I see the world pass heedless by, It costs me not a single sigh For either wealth or power: They are but men, and I'm a man Of quite as great a kind,— Proud, too, that life gives all she can, A calm and quiet mind. I never mocked at beauty's shrine, What all will wish to find, And come what will of care or woe, They're comforts in their kind; When friends depart, as part they must, Though left the last behind; MARY LEE. I HAVE traced the valleys fair They are not flowers of pride, My gentle Mary Lee! Can they fear thy frowns the while, Though offered by me? Here's the lily of the vale. My fairy Mary Lee! All so spotless and so pale, Like thine own purity. My esteem for thee. Surely flowers can bear no blame, My bonny Mary Lee! Here's the violet's modest blue, That 'neath hawthorns hides from v.ew, My gentle Mary Lee, Would show whose heart is true, While it thinks of thee. While they choose each lowly spot, My charming Mary Lee; So I've brought the flowers to plesi, Here's a wild rose just in bud; I could find for thee. Though they deck no princely halls, Will make them dear to thee; Love would make them dearer still, My wreathed flowers are few, Not I hope to thee. Some may boast a richer prize Under pride and wealth's disguise: None a fonder offering bore Than this of mine to thee; And can true love wish for more? Surely not, Mary Lee! JULY. LOUD is the Summer's busy song, The busy noise of man and brute And spiders' threads are standing still; A SUMMER MORNING. THE Cocks have now the morn foretold, The sleepy rustic slowly goes; The dews, brush'd off from grass and flowers, Remoistening sop his hardened shoes; While every leaf that forms a shade, Stoops, bowing with a diamond drop. But soon shall fly those diamond drops, The red round sun advances higher, And, stretching o'er the mountain tops, Is gilding sweet the village spire. 'Tis sweet to meet the morning breeze, |