29 JANUARY 1876, Page 15

FROM MOSCHUS.

WHEN the wind softly sways the azure sea,

My languid spirit kindles at the sight, And then the land is no more a delight, Only the mighty main seems sweet to me.

But when the waters in their wrath grow hoar, And the long rollers rage with curling foam, I turn again towards my wooded home, And love to look upon the sea no more.

Ah 1 sweet the land, and sweet the forest dark, Whose pines make song, whate'er the wild wind's strife ; And hard, indeed, must be the fisher's life, Who toils upon the deep,—his home, a bark ; His prey, the roaming fish. But 'tis my lot Beneath th, plane's full leaf at ease to dream, And thence I love to hear the passing stream, Whose prattle charms, and can disquiet not. W. T.