I only see that thou art near,
I only feel I have thee, Dear!
I only hear thy throbbing heart,
And know that we can never part.

THE BUILDERS.

By LONGFELLOW.

ALL are architects of fate

Working in these walls of time, Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Nothing useless is, or low;

Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest.

For the structure that we raise,
Time is with materials fill'd ;

Our to-days and yesterdays

Are the blocks with which we build.

Truly shape and fashion these!

Leave no yawning gaps between ; Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen.

In the elder days of art,

Builders wrought with greatest care

Each minute and unseen part;

For the Gods see everywhere.

Let us do our work as well,

Both the unseen and the seen;

Make the house, where Gods may dwell,
Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Else our lives are incomplete,
Standing in these walls of time,
Broken stairways, where the feet
Stumble as they seek to climb.

Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
With a firm and ample base;
And ascending and secure
Shall to-morrow find its place.

Thus alone can we attain

To those turrets, where the eye
Sees the world as one vast plain,
And one boundless reach of sky.

RETROSPECTIONS.

In this, as in many of OWEN MEREDITH's minor poems, there gleams something of the wild mystical mood of HEINE.

TO-NIGHT she will dance at the Palace,
With the diamonds in her hair:
And the Prince will praise her beauty-
The loveliest lady there!

But tones, at times, in the music

Will bring back forgotten things:
And her heart will fail her sometimes,

When her beauty is praised at the King's.

There sits in his silent chamber

A stern and sorrowful man:
But a strange sweet dream comes to him,
While the lamp is burning wan,

Of a sunset among the vineyards
In a lone and lovely land,
And a maiden standing near him,

With fresh wild-flowers in her hand.

BURIED GRIEFS.

By CHARLES MACKAY.

Oh! let them rest, the buried griefs,
Why should we drag them to the day?
They lived their hour of storm and shower;
They lived and died and pass'd away.

Oh! let them rest-their graves are green;
New life shall rise above the mould;
The dews shall weep, the blossoms peep,
The flowers of sympathy unfold.

So, on the solitary moor,

The soldiers' graves are bright with flowers;
The wild thyme blooms, and sweet perfumes
Attract the roamers of the bowers.

There strays the bee to gather sweets,
And gives his booming trumpet rest:
There waves the heath its purple wreath,
And there the linnet builds her nest.

So let them rest-the buried griefs,

The place is holy where they lie ;
On Life's cold waste their graves are placed-
The flowers look upward to the sky.

WHISPERS OF THE WATCHING SPIRIT.

From a recent number of The Titan, where it appears anonymously.

In youth I died, in maiden bloom;
With gentle hand death touch'd my cheek,
And with his touch there came to me
A spirit calm and meek.

He took from me all wish to stay,
He was so kind I fear'd him not;
My friends beheld my slow decline,
And mourn'd my timeless lot.

They saw but sorrow; I descried
The bliss that never fades away.
They felt the shadow of the tomb;
I mark'd the heavenly day.

I heard them sob, as through the night
They kept their watch; then on my ear
Amid the sobbing fell a voice

Their anguish could not hear.

“Come, and fear not,” it softly cried; "We wait to lead thee to thy home." Then leap'd my spirit to reply,

"I come, I long to come.

I heard them whisper o'er my bed-
"Another hour, and she must die."
I was too weak to answer them,
That endless life was nigh.

Another hour, with bitter tears
They mourn'd me as_untimely dead,
And heard not how I sang a song
Of triumph o'er their head.

They bore me to the grave, and thought
How narrow was my resting-place;
My soul was roving high and wide

At will through boundless space.

They cloth'd themselves in robes of black;
Through the sad aisles the requiem rang;
Meanwhile the white-robed choirs of heaven
A holy pæan sang.

Oft from my paradise I come,
To visit those I love on earth.
I enter, unperceived, the door :
They sit around the hearth,

And talk in sadden'd tone of me,
As one that never may return.
How little think they that I stand
Among them as they mourn!

But time will ease their grief, and death
Will purge the darkness from their eyes.
Then shall they triumph, when they learn
Heaven's solemn mysteries.

LOVE AT TWO SCORE.

A jovial lyric by THACKERAY.

Ho! pretty page with dimpled chin,
That never has known the barber's shear,
All your aim is woman to win.

This is the way that boys begin.

Wait till you've come to forty year!

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,
Billing and cooing is all your cheer,
Sighing and singing of midnight strains
Under Bonnybell's window panes.

Wait till you've come to forty year!

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass,
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear;
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once you have come to forty year.

Pledge me round, I bid ye declare,

All good fellows whose beards are grey ; Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome, ere

Ever a month was pass'd away?

The reddest lips that ever have kiss'd,
The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May pray and whisper and we not list,
Or look away and never be miss'd,
Ere yet ever a month was gone.

Gillian's dead, Heaven rest her bier,
How I loved her twenty years syne!
Marian's married, but I sit here,
Alive and merry at forty year,

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.