BUCKFASTLEIGH ABBEY. SWEET pastoral vale!-When hope was young, A loiterer in thy sylvan bowers, Wild river! as it lapsed along In glory on its winding way, Like Youth's first hopes, rejoicing, strong, I came when wintry winds were high, Thy river rushed in fierceness by, Thy skies were dim, thy trees were bare ; A change was on my aching heart, As gazing on that altered scene, I turned to what we both had been ;- And thou art now a fairy dream, To stir the source of sweetest tears; That sun-touched fane, and sparkling stream, I would not ask more perfect bliss C. THE QUEEN OF THE MEADOW. A Country Story. BY MISS M. R. MITFord. In a winding unfrequented road in the south of England, close to a low, two-arched bridge, thrown across a stream of more beauty than consequence, stood the small irregular dwelling and the picturesque buildings of Hatherford mill. It was a pretty scene on a summer afternoon was that old mill, with its strong lights and shadows, its low-browed cottage covered with the clustering pyracantha, and the clear brook, which, after dashing, and foaming, and brawling, and playing off all the airs of a mountain river whilst pent up in the mill stream, was no sooner let loose than it subsided into its natural peaceful character, and crept quietly along the valley, meandering through the green woody meadows, as tranquil a trout stream as ever Isaac Walton angled in. Many a passenger has stayed his step to admire the old buildings of Hatherford mill, backed by its dark orchard, especially when the accom |