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Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim,
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time
Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold
And solemn finger to the beautiful

And holy visions that have passed away,
And left no shadow of their loveliness
On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts
The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love,
And, bending mournfully above the pale,
Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers
O'er what has passed to nothingness.

The year

Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow,
Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course,
It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful,—
And they are not. It laid its pallid hand
Upon the strong man,- and the haughty form
Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim.
It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged
The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail
Of stricken ones is heard where erst the song
And reckless shout resounded.

It passed o'er
The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield,
Flashed in the light of mid-day, and the strength
Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass,
Green from the soil of carnage, waves above
The crushed and moldering skeleton. It came,
And faded like a wreath of mist at eve;
Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air,
It heralded its millions to their home

In the dim land of dreams.

Remorseless Time!

Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe !-what power Can stay him in his silent course, or melt

His iron heart to pity? On, still on

He presses, and forever. The proud bird,
The condor of the Andes, that can soar

Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave
The fury of the northern hurricane,

And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home,
Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down
To rest upon his mountain crag,--but Time
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness,
And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind
His rushing pinions.

Revolutions sweep

O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast
Of dreaming sorrow; cities rise and sink
Like bubbles on the water; fiery isles

Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back
To their mysterious caverns; mountains rear
To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow
Their tall heads to the plain; new empires rise,
Gathering the strength of hoary centuries,
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche,
Startling the nations, and the very stars,
Yon bright and burning blazonry of God,
Glitter a while in their eternal depths,

And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train,
Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away
To darkle in the trackless void: yet Time-
Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career,
Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path,
To sit and muse, like other conquerors,
Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.

249-LITTLE GOLDENHAIR.

F. B. SMITH.

Goldenhair climbs upon grandpapa's knee!
Dear little Goldenhair, tired was she,
All the day busy as busy could be.

Up in the morning as soon as 't was light,
Out with the birds and butterflies bright,
Skipping about till the coming of night.

Grandpapa toyed with the curls on her head,
"What has my darling been doing," he said,
"Since she arose with the sun from her bed?"
“Pitty much," answered the sweet little one,
"I cannot tell, so much things I have done:
Played with my dolly and feeded my bun;
"And then I jumped with my little jump-rope,
And I made out of some water and soap
Bootiful worlds, mamma's castles of hope.
"I afterward readed in my picture-book,
And Bella and I we went down to look

For the smooth little stones by the side of the brook,
"And then I comed home and eated my tea,
And I climbed up on to grandpapa's knee,
And I jes' as tired as tired can be."

Lower and lower the little head pressed,
Until it has dropped on grandpapa's breast.
Dear little Goldenhair, sweet be thy rest!

We are but children; the things that we do
Are as sports of a babe to the Infinite view
That marks all our weakness, and pities it, too.
God grant that when night overshadows our way,
And we shall be called to account for our day,
He shall find us as guileless as Goldenhair's lay.
And oh, when aweary, may we be so blest
As to sink like the innocent child to our rest,
And feel ourselves clasped to the Infinite breast!

250.-NIGHT.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

Night is the time for rest;

How sweet, when labors close, To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose,

Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head

Upon our own delightful bed!

Night is the time for dreams;

The gay romance of life,

When truth that is and truth that seems,

Blend in fantastic strife;

Ah! visions less beguiling far

Than waking dreams by daylight are!

Night is the time for toil;

To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil
Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang or heroes wrought.

Night is the time to weep;

To wet with unseen tears

Those graves of memory where sleep
The joys of other years;

Hopes that were angels in their birth,

But perished young like things on earth!

Night is the time to watch;

On ccean's dark expanse

To hail the Pleiades, or catch

The full moon's earliest glance,

That brings unto the home-sick mind
All we have loved and left behind.

Night is the time for care;
Brooding on hours misspent,
To see the spectre of despair

Come to our lonely tent;

Like Brutus, midst his slumbering host,
Startled by Cæsar's stalwart ghost.

Night is the time to muse;

Then from the eye the soul

Takes fight, and with expanding views
Beyond the starry pole,

Descries athwart the abyss of night
The dawn of uncreated light.

Night is the time to pray;

Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away;

So will his followers do;

Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And hold communion there with God.

Night is the time for death;
When all around is peace,
Calmly to yield the weary breath,
From sin and suffering cease:

Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends,-such death be mine!

251.-THE GAIN OF LOSS.

HORATIUS BONAR.

"Nay, give me back my blossoms!"
Said the palm-tree to the Nile;
But the stream passed on, unheeding,
With its old familiar smile.

"Give back my golden ringlets!"
Said the palm-tree to the Nile;
But the stream swept on in silence,
With its dimple and its smile,—

With its dimple and its smile it passed,
With its dimple and its smile,
All heedless of the palm's low wail,
That sunny, sunny Nile!

By Rodah's island-garden,
With its ripple and its smile;
By Shubra's mystic hedgerows
It swept, that glorious Nile!

By Gizeh's great palm-forest
It flashed its stately smile-
By Bulak's river-harbor,
That old, majestic Nile!

By pyramid and palace, With its never-ending smile; By tomb, and mosque, and mazar, It flowed, that mighty Nile! "Come, give me back my blossoms," Sighed the palm-tree to the Nile; But the river flowed unheeding, With its soft and silver smile,—

With its soft and silver smile it flowed.
With its soft and silver smile,
All heedless of the palm-tree's sigh,
That strange, long-wandering Nile!
It seemed to say, "'Tis better far
To leave your flowers to me;
I will bear their yellow beauty on
To the wondering, wondering sea.
"'Tis better they should float away
Upon my dusky wave,

Than find upon their native stem
A useless home and grave.

"If your sweet flow'rs remain with you,
Fruitless your boughs must be;
'Tis their departure brings the fruit;-
Give your bright flowers to me.

"Nay, ask not back your blossoms,"
To the palm-tree said the Nile;
"Let me keep them," said the river,
With its sweet and sunny smile.
And the palm gave up its blossoms
To its friend so wise and old,
And saw them, all unsighing,
Float down the river's gold.

The amber tresses vanished,

And the clear spring-fragrance fled. But the welcome fruit in clusters Came richly up instead.

'Tis thus we gain by losing,
And win by failure here;
We doff the gleaming tinsel,
The golden crown to wear.
Our sickness is our healing,
Our weakness is our might;
Life is but Death's fair offspring,
And Day the child of Night.

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