Close to my spirit, and a while it seems

As if the blue sky were enough of heaven!

My thoughts are like tense chords that give their music
At a chance breath; a thousand delicate hands
Are harping on my soul! no sight, no sound,
But stirs me to the keenest sense of pleasure,-
Be it no more than the wind's cautious tread,
The swaying of a shadow, or a bough,
Or a dove's flight across the silent sky.

Oh, in this sun-bright Sabbath of the heart,
How many a prayer puts on the guise of thought,
An angel unconfessed! Its rapid feet,

That leave no print on Memory's sands, tread not
Less surely their bright path than choral hymns
And litanies. I know the praise of worlds,
And the soul's unvoiced homage, both arise
Distinctly to His ear who holds all Nature
Pavilioned by His presence; who has fashioned
With an impartial care, alike the star
That keeps unpiloted its airy circle,

And the sun-quickened germ, or the poor moss
The building swallow plucks to line her nest.

SUMMER.

THE early Spring hath gone; I see her stand

Afar off on the hills-white clouds, like doves,

Yoked by the South-wind to her opal car,

And at her feet a lion and a lamb

Couched, side by side. Irresolute Spring hath gone!

And Summer comes like PSYCHE, zephyr-borne
To her sweet land of pleasures.

She is here!

Amid the distant vales she tarried long,

But she hath come, oh joy !—for I have heard
Her many-chorded harp the livelong day,
Sounding from plains and meadows, where, of late,
Rattled the hail's sharp arrows, and where came
The wild North-wind, careering like a steed
Unconscious of the rein. She hath gone forth
Into the forest, and its poisèd leaves

Are platformed for the Zephyr's dancing feet.
Under its green pavilions she hath reared

Most beautiful things; the Spring's pale orphans lie
Sheltered upon her breast; the bird's loud song
At morn outsoars his pinion; and when waves
Put on Night's silver harness, the still air

Is musical with soft tones. She hath baptized
Earth with her joyful weeping. She hath blessed
All that do rest beneath the wing of Heaven,
And all that hail its smile. Her ministry
Is typical of love. She hath disdained
No gentle office, but doth bend to twine
The grape's light tendrils, and to pluck apart
The heart-leaves of the rose. She doth not pass
Unmindful the bruised vine, nor scorn to lift
The trodden weed; and when her lowlier children
Faint by the wayside like worn passengers,

She is a gentle mother, all night long

Bathing their pale brows with her healing dews.
The Hours are spendthrifts of her wealth; the Days
Are dowered with her beauty.

Frank W. Ballard.

LITTLE MAY.

SHE is not dead,

But sleeps;

Beside her cradle-bed

My memory keeps

'The vigil sad.

Awake, my child,

Awake!

'Tis long since thou hast smiled;

My heart will break,

Unless beguiled!

No voice replies,—

Those lips

Naught echo to my cries;

In life's eclipse

She silent lies.

That brow so cold

Those eyes

No more my face behold;

Alas! she lies

Within Death's fold.

She dwells with GOD;

Her feet,

With heavenly sandals shod,

Traverse the street

By angels trod.

Then let her sleep;

Her dreams

Are bliss.

Dear Saviour, keep,

Near Eden's streams,

The lamb we weep.

THE

THE

HE summer flowers, above her breast,
Bud, bloom, and fade away;

The winter snow-flakes lightly rest
Upon that lifeless clay.

No heedless footstep may invade

That holy hill-side plot;
A rustic paling, rudely made,
Protects the lonely spot.

No father, mother, sister near,
Her prairie bed to share;
Or moisten, with the falling tear,
The wild-flowers growing there.

She sleeps, in silence and alone,
No guardian angel seen-

For God's own hand hath sealed the stone

Above that grave so green.

So shall she sweetly, safely sleep

Among the prairie flowers;

While we this grateful memory keep—

"One little bud is ours."

Harriet Beecher Stowe.

"ONLY A YEAR."*

ONE year ago, a ringing voice,

A clear blue eye,

And clustering curls of sunny hair,
Too fair to die.

Only a year, no voice, no smile,
No glance of eye,

No clustering curls of golden hair,

Fair but to die.

One year ago,-what loves, what schemes

Far into life!

What joyous hopes, what high resolves,
What generous strife!

The silent picture on the wall,

The burial-stone,

Of all that beauty, life, and joy,

Remain alone!

One year,—one year, one little year,

And so much gone!

And yet the even flow of life

Moves calmly on.

*These lines refer to the death, July 9, 1857, of a son, a student of Dartmouth College, who went with some classmates to the Connecticut River to bathe, got beyond his depth, and was drowned.