d seemed with a rapture sped,
On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May.

The dew-wet grass all through they pass,
The orchard they compass round;
Save words like sighs and swimming eyes
No utterance they found.
Upon his chest she leaned her breast,
And nestled her small, small head,
And cast a look so sad, that shook
Him all with the meaning said:
Oh hushed was the song the trees among,
As over there sailed a gled,
On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May.

Then forth with a faltering voice there came,
"Ah would Lord Thomas for thee
That I were come of a lineage high,
And not of a low degree."
Lord Thomas her lips with his fingers touched,
And stilled her all with his ee':
"Dear Ella! Dear Ella!" he said,
"Beyond all my ancestry
Is this dower of thine--that precious thing,
Dear Ella, thy purity.
Thee will I wed--lift up thy head--
All I have I give to thee--
Yes--all that is mine is also thine--
My lands and my ancestry."
The little birds sang and the orchard rang
With a heavenly melody,
On a Whit-sunday morn in the month of May.

Modern Giants

Yes! there are Giants on the earth in these days; but it is their
great bulk, and the nearness of our view, which prevents us from
perceiving their grandeur. This is how it is that the glory of the
present is lost upon the contemporaries of the greatest men; and,
perhaps this was Swift's meaning, when he said that Gulliver could
not discover exactly what it was that strode among the corn-ridges in
the Brobdignagian field: thus, we lose the brightness of things of
our own time in consequence of their proximity.

It is of the development of our individual perceptions, and the
application thereof to a good use, that the writer humbly endeavours
to treat. We will for this purpose take as an example, that which may
be held to indicate the civilization of a period more than any thing
else; namely, the popular perception of the essentials of Poetry; and
endeavour to show that while the beauties of old writers are
acknowledged, (tho' not in proportion to the attention of each
individual in his works to nature alone) the modern school is
contemned and unconsidered; and also that much of the active poetry
of modern life is neglected by the majority of the writers
themselves.

There seems to be an opinion gaining ground fast, in spite of all the
shaking of conventional heads, t