Nay, weep not then let but the ray Glorious shall be thy summer's day, Then Memory's light, though dim, shall show Autumn.-H. W. LONGFELLOW. O, WITH What glory comes and goes the year!— The buds of spring-those beautiful harbingers Of sunny skies and cloudless times-enjoy Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out; And when the silver habit of the clouds Comes down upon the autumn sun, and, with A sober gladness, the old year takes up His bright inheritance of golden fruits, A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene. There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn, on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing; and in the vales The gentle wind-a sweet and passionate wooerKisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beach, and maple yellow-leaved,Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the way-side a-weary. Through the trees The golden robin moves; the purple finch, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,A winter bird,-comes with its plantive whistle, And pecks by the witch-hazel; whilst aloud, From cottage roofs, the warbling blue-bird sings; And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail. O, what a glory doth this world put on Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. To his long resting-place without a tear. The Bucket.-SAMUEL WOODWORTH. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well! That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; The Snow Flake.-HANNAH F. GOULD. "Now, if I fall, will it be my lot It seemed in mid air suspended. "O, no," said the Earth," thou shalt not lie, But revive when the sunbeams are yellow and warm, "And then thou shalt have thy choice to be To melt, and be cast in a glittering bead, With the pearls that the night scatters over the mead, In the cup where the bee and the fire-fly feed, Regaining thy dazzling brightness;— "To wake, and be raised from thy transient sleep, When Viola's mild blue eye shall weep, In a tremulous tear, or a diamond leap In a drop-from the unlocked fountain; Or, leaving the valley, the meadow and heath, "Or, wouldst thou return to a home in the skies, And appear in the many and glorious dyes But true, fair thing, as my name is Earth, When thou shalt recover thy primal worth, "Then I will drop," said the trusting flake; Nor the mist that shall pass with the morning: "And if true to thy word, and just thou art, For I would be placed in the beautiful bow, "I am the Way, and the Truth, and the Life."— ANONYMOUS. THOU art the Way-and he who sighs, A light from heaven's eternal glow, Through which the saints undoubting trod; Till faith discovers, like the dove, An ark, a resting place in God. Thou art the Truth-whose steady day Shines on through earthly blight and bloom, The pure, the everlasting ray, The lamp that shines e'en in the tomb; The word, whose precious radiance flings Thou art the Life-the blessed well, Which those who drink shall ever dwell Where sin and thirst are known no more; Thou art the mystic pillar given, Our lamp by night, our light by day; Thou art the sacred bread from heaven;Thou art the Life-the Truth-the Way. The Iceberg.-J. O. ROCKWELL. "TWAS night-our anchored vessel slept Out on the glassy sea; And still as heaven the waters kept, The setting sun, went sinking slow And the ocean seemed a pall to throw There was no motion of the air And no wave-building winds were there, But ocean mingled with the sky With such an equal hue, That vainly strove the 'wildered eye To part their gold and blue. And ne'er a ripple of the sea Save when some timorous fish stole out When, flouting in the light that played All over the resting main, He would sink beneath the wave, and dart To his deep, blue home again. Yet, while we gazed, that sunny eve, A form came ploughing the golden wave, It blushed bright red, while growing on |