It must be, I confess, allow'd,

The height of which the bird's so proud,
Makes him the gunner's surer prey—
To him, then, I'll have naught to say.

Since thus it fares with cat and dog,
And horse and bird, I'll be a hog,

And grunt and grub and munch; and stay 'Mid mud and mire the live-long day.

Yet oh, methinks, I never could
Consent to lave my limbs in mud;
In mire and sloth my life to spend,
Nor"
save my bacon" in the end.

I'd rather be, it strikes me now,
That charming animal a cow,

To wander o'er the gold-cupp'd field,
And butter, scarce less golden, yield.

And so I would-but don't they say
That kine, like swine, have but their day;-
And truly one would quite as lief
Be turned to bacon as to beef.

Well then, suppose I'd be a mouse,
Having the
range of all the house;
To climb the walls, race o'er the floors,
Nibble the cheese, and taste the stores?

It would no doubt be monstrous nice
To lead the life of cats and mice,
And, were there no such things as traps,
My wishes here would end, perhaps.

Since cares mortality pursue,

Ye moonlight elves, I'll join with you,
Brushing the pearly dew away
In frolic dance—I'll be a fay,

Yet pause awhile-it hath been said
Elves hold all holy things in dread-
Shrink from the light, and start with fear
At the glad voice of chanticleer.

And is it thus ? Then since I know
Each station hath its proper woe,

I think I'd better strive to be
Content with that assign'd to me.

So, Messieurs Cat and Mouse, and Dog,
And Horse, and Bird, and bristly Hog;
And eke thou merry moonlight Elf,
By your good leaves, I'll be-myself.
(By permission of Mr. Masters.)

THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN.

HIGH thoughts!

They come and go,

ROBERT NICOLL.

Like the soft breathings of a listening maiden,

While round me flow

The winds, from woods and fields with gladness
laden;

When the corn's rustle on the ear doth come-
When the eve's beetle sounds its drowsy hum-
When the stars, dewdrops of the summer sky,
Watch over all with soft and loving eye-
While the leaves quiver

High thoughts!

They are with me

When, deep within the bosom of the forest,
Thy morning melody

Abroad into the sky, thou, throstle, pourest.
When the young sunbeams glance among the trees-
When on the ear comes the soft song of bees—
When every branch has its own favourite bird,
And songs of summer from each thicket heard!—
Where the owl flitteth,

Where the rose sitteth,

High thoughts!

And holiness

Seems sleeping there;
While nature's prayer

Goes up to heaven
In purity

Till all is glory

They are my own

And joy to me!

When I am resting on a mountain's bosom,

And see below me strown

The huts and homes where humble virtues blos

som;

When I can trace each streamlet through the meadow

When I can follow every fitful shadow—

When I can watch the winds among the corn,

And see the waves along the forest borne;

Where bluebell and heather

Are blooming together,

And far doth come

The Sabbath bell,
O'er wood and fell;
I hear the beating
Of nature's heart;
Heaven is before me-
God! Thou art!

INDOLENCE.

From the "Gentle Life."

PUTTING a very pertinent question to his correspondent, Zimmerman asks, "Which is the real hereditary sin of humanity? Do you imagine that I shall say pride, or luxury, or ambition? No! I shall say indolence. He who conquers that, can conquer all." How perfectly true this is we are not all ready to acknowledge; and, with due respect to a man who was a strange but a deep thinker, we doubt whether the sin attaches to Nature. She is surely, in this respect, far above suspicion. "Nature," writes Goethe, "knows no pause, and attaches a curse upon all inaction." The botanist, the geologist, the chemist, alike attest this great truth. Sitting down upon the sea-shore, and watching the rise and fall, and the ebb and flow of the waves; marking the little ripples left in the sand to be moved and washed away at the next tide; deeply regarding the water-worn rocks or the chalk cliffs, which have been driven, as it were, inland by the ceaseless work of the sea; looking at the ever-springing grass, the cirrus and cumulative clouds which pass away and "leave not a rack behind;" listening to the continual chirp of the cricket, the "thin, high-elbowed things" which thread the grass, or watching the sea gull lifting itself above the breaking waves, and then darting on its prey-we may well say that Nature knows no pause. She builds up, or she destroys, but she moves ever forward; it is with her as with her little trickling servant, the brook, of which our greatest poet has written, that—

"Men may come, and men may go,

But I go on for ever."

But when here, man does come and go;

and although,

in the aggregate, he is a busy creature, working for

ever with brain and hand, still in the individual he is much given to indolence. Civilization, which has placed everything in the hands of certain people, has freed them from the necessity of working, and they have become do-nothing classes in the worst sense. Now-a-days many people are proud of doing nothing, and inflate themselves with the wicked vanity, holding a prescriptive right of being indolent. There has

grown up amongst us-the strange efflorescence of our grand endeavours and our ceaseless workers-a party which brags and vaunts that it does not earn its own living-that it does nothing, lives at the expense of others, and is yet superior to others. This class is certainly not the highest in any sense of the word, for amongst them we find ceaseless workers; and of them are they which best know the true value of time. That of which we speak is a rich and, so to name it, an ignorant class, which alike despises the trader, the merchant, the poor professor, and the poor thinker or writer, through whose united efforts they are kept in well-being. Peace, safety, and good government have produced these men; a sort of persons who are like the fat and lazy grub, living comfortably inside the hazel-nut which it preys upon and destroys. But of all pride-and all of it is more or less without a foundation and foolish altogether-that which builds itself upon a right to be idle and to do nothing, is the most foolish and the most baseless. A man may be proud of a handsome face or of a very clever head, with some reason; for, although he did not make the one, and God gave him the other, still he is the fortunate recipient of that which almost all men and women admire. It has, too, grown into a custom to be proud of being the descendant of an old family, and of possessing a name and estate which have descended from a remote ancestry. There is not much sense in this kind of pride; but custom excuses it; and although the wise man will very properly disdain to exercise it, yet it may lead to an honourable and not useless life. People