ver learn the song.

No music, borne from Eden's bowers,
On heaven's own balmy wings,
No song, that angels ever sang.
Could roach these lofty strings;

For Gabriel with his golden harp,
Tuned by the heavenly dove,
Could never touch the thrilling notes
Of God's redeeming love.

APPENDIX.

* * * * *

The Pastoral was published in one of the papers of the day. As it gave
rise to a little mirth, we insert it with the poems annexed.

* * * * *

PRAISES OF RURAL LIFE.

Though city ladies treat with scorn
The humble farmer's wife,
And call his daughters rude and coarse,
I'll live a country life.

I'd rather spin, and weave, and knit,
And wholesome meals prepare,
Than, dressed in silk, with servants throng'd,
Lounge in my cushioned chair.

I love to see my chickens grow,
My turkies, ducks, and geese;
I love to tend my flowering plants,
And make the new milk cheese.

I love to wash, I love to sew,
All needful work I like to do;
I like to keep my kitchen neat,
And humble parlor, too.

And when the grateful task is done,
And pleasure claims a share,
With some dear friend I'll walk abroad
And take the balmy air.

Not through the dusty, crowded streets,
Amid the bustling throng,
But in some pleasant cool retreat,
We'll hear the woodland song.

Or trace the winding silver stream,
And linger on its banks,
While all the birds in concert sweet,
Present their evening thanks.

We'll seek the ancient forest shade,
And see its branches wave,
Which have, perchance, a requiem sang
Above the red man's grave.

We'll breathe the pure untainted air,
Fresh from the verdant hills;
And pluck wild blossoms from their beds
Beside the laughing rills.

I love the country in the spring,
With all its waving trees;
When songs of joy from every grove
Are wafted on the breeze.

The smiling pastures robed in green,
How beautiful, and gay;
With bleating flocks, and lowing herds,
And little lambs at play.

I love midst rural scenes to dwell,
In summer's pleasant hours;
And pluck her sweet delicious fruits,
And smell her fragrant flowers.

I love to see the growing corn,
And fields of waving grain;
I love th