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.

A

Frank Lee Benedict.

A PICTURE.

(FROM "THE SHADOW-WORSHIPPER.")

ARNOLD, pausing on the brow of the hill.

GOODLY scene! The valley fair outstretched

In many a wild and picturesque change

Below the towering peaks that lock it in,
Like offerings flung 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.

IN MEMORIAM.

HE Autumn's latest leaves are gone,

THE

Its richest glories dead,

And hopes more bright than Autumn skies

Have with that parting fled.

The gayest heart that treasured life,

The voice of truest glee—

Of all the friends that Death might claim, I had not singled thee!

We parted in the Summer time,

When life was bold and brave-
I did not think the Autumn leaves
Would rustle o'er thy grave;
A year ago we two had watched
Their gorgeous brightness fall-
I little dreamed that those of Spring
Were woven for thy pall.

I stand within the darkened home

Thy presence filled with mirth,
And mutely watch the broken band
Around thy father's hearth.
I listen for thy coming step,

And, cheated by each sound,
Look sadly on thy household gifts
That still are grouped around.
The very chair where thou hast sat
Recalls thy face to mind,
And not the simplest act of yore
But hath a spell to bind..
The rustic bird-cage for the wrens,

The trellis for the vine,

The little plot of Autumn flowers,
And spray of mountain pine—

The treasured books thy hand hath touched,
The drawings on the wall,

They speak with voice articulate—

A memory in all !

The old familiar room is changed-
The sun has ceased to play
So brightly on the garden porch,
Since thou art gone away!

And yet I would not call thee back,
To cull youth's short-lived flowers,
For souls like thine are first to leave
This dreary world of ours.
A brighter sky bends o'er thy way
Beyond this earthly gloom,
And fadeless light around thee falls
Where Eden's roses bloom.

There, aspirations checked below,
To fuller life have sprung,
Unfettered by the thralling weight
That here around them clung.
The glowing hopes that duty stilled,
The dreams of holy light,
These too have found a higher aim
Beyond our earthly night.

But yet these human hearts will ache
And throb with yearning pain,
And blindly toward thine upper life
Our spirits reach in vain.
Amid the gloom of worldly mists

Our erring footsteps roam;

But thou, more pure and blest than we, Wert first to reach thy home.

THE END.