One morning (raw it was and wet— A foggy day in winter time) A woman on the road I met, Not old, though something past her prime: Majestic in her person, tall and straight; And like a Roman matron's was her mien and g»it.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke, " What is it," said I, " that you bear, Beneath the covert of your cloak, Protected from this cold, damp air ?" She answered, soon as she the question heard, " A simple burthen, Sir, a little singing-bird." And thus continuing, she said, "1 had a son, who many a day Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; In Denmark he was cast away: And I have travelled weary miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me.

" The bird and cage they both were his: 'Twas my son's bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages The singing-bird had gone with him ; When last he sailed, he left the bird behind; From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.

" He to a fellow-lodger's care Had left it, to be watched and fed, And pipe its song in safety;—there I found it when my son was dead; And now, God help me for my little wit! I bear it with me, Sir;—he took so much delight in it." WORDSWORTH.

NOTICE.

THIS Journal will in future be published on the first day of February, May, August, and No- vember in each year.

The delay in the publication of the current Number has been caused by the Annual Wreck Register of the Board of Trade having only been received a few days ago.