T summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sun-bright summit mingles with the sky? Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? "Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue. Thus, with delight, we linger to survey The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene More pleasing seems than all the past hath been,

HE sun of life has crossed the line;
The summer-shine of lengthened light
Faded and failed-till, where I stand,
"Tis equal day and equal night.

One after one as dwindling hours,

Youth's glowing hopes have dropped away, And soon may barely leave the gleam That coldly scores a winter's day.

I am not young-I am not old;

The flush of morn, the sunset calm, Paling and deepening, each to each, Meet midway with a solemn charm.

One side I see the summer fields,
Not yet disrobed of all their green;

While westerly, along the hills,
Flame the first tints of frosty sheen.

Ah, middle-point, where cloud and storm
Make battle-ground of this my life!
Where, even matched, the night and day
Wage round me their September strife.

I bow me to the threatening gale:
I know when that is overpast,
Among the peaceful harvest days
An Indian Summer comes at last.
MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY.

How hard he breathes! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro:

The cricket chirps: the light burns low: 'Tis nearly twelve o clock.

Shake hands before you die.

Old year, we 'll dearly rue for you:
What is it we can do for you?
Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin. Alack! our friend is gone.

Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:

Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone,

And waiteth at the door.

There's a new foot on the floor, my friend
And a new face at the door, my friend,
A new face at the door.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

HAT song is well sung, not of sorrow? What triumph well won without pain? What virtue shall be, and not borrow Bright lustre from many a stain?

What birth has there been without travail?
What battle well won without blood?
What good shall earth see, without evil
Ingarnered as chaff with the good?

Lo! the Cross set in rocks by the Roman,
And nourished by blood of the Lamb,
And watered by tears of the woman,
Has flourished, has spread like a palm;

HOPE.

Has spread in the frosts, and far regions
Of snows in the North, and South sands,
Where never the tramp of his legions

Was heard, nor has reached forth his red hands.
Be thankful; the price and the payment,
The birth, the privations and scorn,
The cross, and the parting of raiment,

Are finished. The star brought us morn.
Look starward; stand far and unearthy,
Free-souled as a banner unfurled;

Be worthy, O brother, be worthy!
For a God was the price of the world.
JOAQUIN MILLER.

LAS! how light a cause may move Dissension between hearts that love! Hearts that the world in vain has tried,

R

And sorrow but more closely tied;

That stood the storm when waves were rough, Yet in a sunny hour fall off,

Like ships that have gone down at sea,

When heaven was all tranquillity!

A something light as air, - a look,

A word unkind or wrongly taken,

O, love that tempests never shook,

A breath, a touch like this has shaken!

And ruder words will soon rush in
To spread the breach that words begin;
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship's smiling day;
And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said;
Till fast declining, one by one,

The sweetnesses of love are gone,