170

THE WATER-MILL.

Love that we might once have saved by a single

kindly word,

Thoughts conceived but ne'er expressed, perishing unpenned, unheard.

Oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast, "The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Nor wait until to-morrow's light beams brightly on

thy way,

For all that thou canst call thine own lies in the

phrase, to-day.

Possessions, power, and blooming health, must all be lost at last,

“The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Oh! love thy God and fellow-man, thyself consider

last,

For come it will when thou must scan dark errors of

the past;

Soon will this fight of life be o'er, and earth recede

from view,

And Heaven in all its glory shine where all is pure and true.

Ah! then thou'll see more clearly still the proverb deep and vast,

"The mill will never grind again with water that is

past."

D. C. MCCALLUM.

MY BOOKS.

АH! well I love these books of mine,

That stand so trimly on their shelves,

With here and there a broken line

(Fat "quartos" jostling modest "twelves"), A curious company,

I own;

The poorest ranking with their betters:

In brief—a thing almost unknown—
A Pure Democracy-of Letters.

A motley gathering are they;

Some fairly worth their weight in gold;

Some just too good to throw away;

Some scarcely worth the place they hold.

Yet well I love them, one and all,

These friends so meek and unobtrusive,

Who never fail to come at call,

Nor (if I scold them) turn abusive!

If I have favorites here and there,

And, like a monarch, pick and choose,

I never meet an angry stare

That this I take and that refuse;

No discords rise my soul to vex

Among these peaceful book-relations,

Nor envious strife of age or sex

To mar my quiet lucubrations.

And they have still another merit,
Which otherwhere one vainly seeks,
Whate'er may be an author's spirit,
He never uninvited speaks;

And should he prove a fool or clown,

Unworth the precious time you're spending,
How quickly you can "put him down,"
Or "shut him up," without offending.

Here-pleasing sight!-the touchy brood
Of critics from dissension cease,
And-stranger still!—no more at feud,
Polemics smile, and keep the peace.

See! side by side, all free from strife

(Save what the heavy page may smother), The gentle "Christians" who, in life,

For conscience' sake had burned each other.

I call them friends, these quiet books,
And well the title they may claim,
Who always give me cheerful looks
(What living friend has done the same?)
And, for companionship, how few,

As these, my cronies, ever-present,

Of all the friends I ever knew,

Have been so useful and so pleasant?

J. G. SAXE.

EVENING.

THE breath of spring-time, at this twilight hour,
Comes through the gathering gloom,
And bears the stolen sweets of many a flower
Into my silent room.

Where hast thou wandered, gentle gale, to find
The perfumes thou dost bring?

By brooks that through the wakening meadows wind,
Or brink of rushy spring?

Or woodside, where, in little companies

The early wild flowers rise,

Or sheltered lawn, where, mid encircling trees,
May's warmest sunshine lies?

Now sleeps the humming-bird, that, in the sun,
Wandered from bloom to bloom;

Now, too, the weary bee, his day's work done,
Rests in his waxen room.

Now every hovering insect to his place
Beneath the leaves hath flown;

And, through the long night hours, the flowery race
Are left to thee alone.

O'er the pale blossoms of the sassafras,
And o'er the spice-bush spray,

Among the open buds thy breathings pass,
And come embalmed away.

Yet there is sadness in thy soft caress,
Wind of the blooming year!

The gentle presence, that was wont to bless
Thy coming, is not here.

Go, then; and yet I bid thee not repair,
Thy gathered sweets to shed