ON SEEING A LEAF FALL BY MOONLIGHT.

OH bright was the hour when thou wast born,
And the winds sang peace to the blushing morn,

Who stepp'd o'er the clouds at their matin call-
But ne'er may the memory of days gone by,
Save the victim of death when his hour is nigh;
And vain was the warmth of thy natal sky;
The moonlight saw thee fall.

Thy youth, it was spent in dance and glee,
With thy leaflet brothers embowering thee,
Happiness trembling o'er one and all-
But the loveliest dreams must fade away,
And our comrades, ah tell me, where are they?
Links are broken to-morrow, though twined to-day-
The moonlight saw thee fall.

Thou hast stood the cloud and the dashing rain,
Over thee the chill blast hath swept in vain,

And the night vainly spread her funeral pall-
But a word may crush when the heart doth ache,
And it needs not then a storm ere it break-
Thou hast stood the tempest, when strong hearts quake,
But the moonlight saw thee fall.

E. H. B.

TALES FOR THE SICK-ROOM.

No. III.

HILDA.

THE young Hilda had long been confined to a couch of wearisome pain and sickness, but health began again to glow in her cheek, and on one of the first warm mornings of spring, her light step once more bounded over the moss-grown walks of her favourite wood. A clear rivulet flowed beside the path, and its little waves danced in the laughing sunshine. Hilda watched with delight the sparkling fish now glancing through the sunny waters, now hiding themselves amidst the cool green river weeds. A light breeze passed over the wood, and played amidst the tender foliage of spring, and the little birds flew gaily from bough to bough, and carolled their sweet wild songs, "Happy, happy creatures," cried Hilda, "how sweet are the joys of freedom; and I too now am free!" and she bounded along with lighter step, as if she would shake off the heavy load that had pressed so long on her young life.

At this moment a man entered the wood, leading by the hand a lovely boy. The child felt all the bright glad power of spring, and the merry peals of his childish joy mingled with the song of the birds. Soon

the wild flowers of the thicket caught his eye, and he would fain have twined for himself a garland in the wood, but his father held his hand, nor would suffer him to leave him for a moment.

Then Hilda's heart was grieved; "the little fishes of the stream, the birds amidst the branches, follow their own wild will, and rejoice in blessed freedom, while this sweet child, lovelier far than they, walks sad and downcast, his buoyant joy all dashed-methinks I hear him weep."

Her eye followed the child and his father through the winding valley. The flowers were soon forgotten, but the path grew rough and stony. In an instant the child clung to his father's arm, and Hilda saw him safe folded to his bosom. They approached the moorland, but the child felt not its keen wind, for his father's cloak was wrapped around him, and he was borne gently and safely over every dangerous pass.

Hilda now looked no more sadly on the sports of the happy woodland creatures. "There is joy," she exclaimed, "in wild freedom, but a deeper holier joy in confiding protecting love; and this is the portion of the child. I too," thought she, "am a child ;" and a tear of self-reproach fell from her eye, as she remembered how often she had repulsed the unseen hand that guided her. "How often, when my Father has held me back," said she, "have I begged him to leave me alone. Alone! oh, Father," she exclaimed, “forgive thy wayward child, hearken not to her foolish cry; let her feel the sternest grasp of thy earnest faithful love-but leave her not alone.”

Then peace was breathed into her soul, and in its inmost depths sounded the sweet words of promise— "I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.”

If Hilda's step were less buoyant on her return, her heart was more full of peace. Very soon was she called on to apply the holy lesson she had learned, for dark hours of sorrow were now again to close around her; but she was not left alone,-and she found in the conscious presence of chastening love, a tearful joy for which no freedom could have made amends.

REMINISCENCES

OF A TOUR IN SWITZERLAND, IN 1846.

THOSE persons who have a taste for travelling, may perhaps like to follow me through a few scenes, productive of lasting pleasure, which occurred during a delightful tour, taken in the fine summer of this year; and those readers who have gone over the same ground as myself, will not, I should think, regret being transported in imagination back to spots which, once seen, can never be forgotten.

Travelling is, I think, one of the most elevated and intellectual enjoyments of which the mind is capable. By gazing on the works of God in their infinite variety, and allowing their elevating and soothing influence to sink deep into the soul, we imbibe impressions which are unfading, and scenes of beauty and sublimity will return to the mental vision amid the rushing of the busy world, and by their calming influence soothe the spirit when worn and fretted by the depressing effects of worldly cares. Spots which are hallowed by association with what is great and good, have a peculiar charm; the ruin which speaks to us of bygone days and former grandeur now no more, is an eloquent remembrancer of the perishable nature of earthly greatness; and the feelings excited by visiting some interesting relics of the olden time, stand in direct opposition to those which are experienced, whilst gazing on the 'Everlasting Hills:' they moulder not, their Maker and