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Old Truth has sent thee here to bear
The maxims which we fain must hear.

And now, as I observe thee nearer,

Thou’rt pretty-very pretty-quite
As glossy and as fair-nay, fairer-

Than these, but not so bright;
And since thou came Truth's messenger,
Thou shalt remain, and speak of her.

She says thou art a herald, sent

In kind and friendly warning,
To mix with locks by Beauty blent

(The fair young brow adorning), And midst their wild luxuriance taught To show thyself, and waken thought

That thought, which to the dreamer preaches

A lesson stern as true,
That all things pass away, and teaches

How youth must vanish too!
And thou wert sent to rouse anew
This thought, whene'er thou meet'st the view.

And comes there not a whispering sound

A low, faint, murmuring breath, Which, as thou movest, floats around

Like echoes in their death ?Time onward sweeps, youth flies, prepare!" Such is thine errand, First Gray Hair.

Rose Terry.

THE FISHING-SONG.

DOWN

OWN in the wide gray river,

The current is sweeping strong; Over the wide

gray

river Floats the fisherman's song. The oar-stroke times the singing,

The song falls with the oar; And an echo in both is ringing

I thought to hear no more. Out of a deeper current

The song brings back to me A cry

from mortal silence Of mortal

agony. Life that was spent and vanished,

Love that had died of wrong, Hearts that are dead in living,

Come back in the fisherman's song. I see the maples leafing,

Just as they leafed before ;
The green grass comes no greener
Down to the

very

shoreWith the rude strain swelling, sinking,

In the cadence of days gone by, As the oar, from the water drinking,

Ripples the mirrored sky. Yet oul hath life diviner;

Its past returns no more,

But in echoes, that answer the minor

Of the boat-song, from the shore.
And the ways of God are darkness ;

His judgment waiteth long;
He breaks the heart of a woman

With a fisherman's careless song.

REVE DU MIDI.

WHEN o’er the mountain

steeps
The hazy noontide creeps,
And the shrill cricket sleeps

Under the grass ;
When soft the shadows lie,
And clouds sail o'er the sky,

And the idle winds go by,
With the heavy scent of blossoms as they pass-

Then, when the silent stream
Lapses as in a dream,
And the water-lilies gleam

Up to the sun;
When the hot and burdened day
Rests on its downward way,

When the moth forgets to play,
And the plodding ant may dream her work is done-

Then, from the noise of war
And the din of earth afar,
Like some forgotten star

Dropped from the sky-
The sounds of love and fear,
All voices sad and clear,

Banished to silence drear-
The willing thrall of trances sweet I lie.

Some melancholy gale
Breathes its mysterious tale,
Till the Rose's lips grow pale

With her sighs;
And o'er my thoughts are cast
Tints of the vanished past,

Glories that faded fast,
Renewed to splendour in my dreaming eyes.

As, poised on vibrant wings,
Where its sweet treasure swings,
The honey-lover clings

To the red flowers-
So, lost in vivid light,
So, rapt from day and night,

I linger in delight,
Enraptured o'er the vision-freighted hours.

Frank Lee Benedict.

A PICTURE.

(From “THE SHADOW-WORSHIPPER.”)

ARNOLD, pausing on the brow of the hill. A

GOODLY scene! The valley fair outstretched

In many a wild and picturesque change
Below the towering peaks that lock it in,
Like offerings Aung beneath a tyrant's feet.
The hazy river winds its mist between,
A bright isle dancing on its passive heave,

Like some enchanted thing that's wandered far,
And lost from Eastern realms in this bleak clime.
Great belts of trees shut out the restless world
Beyond that mount which rises proudly up
With a stern grandeur in its regal mien,
As if it kept the lesser crags in awe,
And made that vale its own sweet paramour.
Dim groves where Indian maidens dreamed of

yore,
And pastures with the scent of clover there,
And hamlets nestled in and out like doves,
Make up a scene that's like Arcadia.
This haunt hath been for Dryads in old time,
And Fauns have danced within these woodland bowers.
E'en Heaven itself bends near this greenwood dell,
That seems as if it had been hollowed out
To make a cup for Pan. Here should be calm ;
And here methinks this weary heart might rest,
If but the valley clods lay over it.
Ah, happy child, that this has been thy home!
No marvel if such purity's within,
For this, thy dwelling-place, is near to Heaven.
Men here should have no petty thoughts and aims,
Like pent-up dwellers of great towns below;
Their souls should catch a hue from this fair spot,
And swell with greatness far beyond their clay.

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"HE Autumn's latest leaves are gone,
THE

Its richest glories dead,
And hopes more bright than Autumn skies

Have with that parting fled.

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