ALL'S WELL.

"All's Well!" -Through the lengthening lines
Each sentry re-echoes the word,
And faintly yon forest of pines

With dreamy responses is stirred :
On the marge of the nebulous night,
A wavy, reiterate sigh,

It ripples, then vanishes quite

In the infinite deeps of the sky:

"All's Well!"

"All's Well!" In the warfare of life

Does my soul like a sentinel stand, Prepared to encounter the strife,

With well burnished weapon in hand? While the senses securely repose,

And doubt and temptation have room,

Does the keen ear of conscience unclose?

Does she listen, and catch through the gloom: "All's Well?"

"All's Well!" Can I echo the word?

Does faith with a sleepless control

Bid the peaceful assurance be heard

In the questionless depths of my soul? Then fear not, frail heart!-when the scars Of the brave-foughten combat are past, Clear voices that fall from the stars

Will quiet thee on to the last:

"All's Well!"

MARGARET J. PRESTON.

THAT which her slender waist confined
Shall now my joyful temples bind;
No monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this hath done.

It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer:

THE MOTHER'S LAST SONG.

My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass! and yet there
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair.
Give me but what this ribbon bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round!

EDMUND WALLER.

SLEEP!

THE MOTHER'S LAST SONG.

The ghostly winds are blowing;

No moon abroad, no star is glowing;
The river is deep, and the tide is flowing
To the land where you and I are going:
We are going afar,

Beyond moon or star,

To the land where the sinless angels are.

I lost my heart to your heartless sire,
('Twas melted away by his looks of fire,)
Forgot my God, and my father's ire,

All for the sake of a man's desire;
But now we'll go

Where the waters flow,

And make us a bed where none shall know.

The world is cruel. the world is untrue;
Our foes are many, or friends are few;

Sleep! The ghostly Winds are blowing;
No moon's abroad; no star is glowing :
The river isdeep, and the tide is flowing
To the Land where you and I are going!
weare gang afar,
Beyond

To the Land where the sunless Angels are!

x

The world is cruel; the world's untrue

Our foes are

Nourk

our friends are flui

этому і
no bread, however we sue, I

what is there left for us to do,

But fly, -ty

From the cruel sky,

And hide in the deepest deeps, and die!

BW. Procter.

SHE IS A MAID OF ARTLESS GRACE.

No work, no bread, however we sue!
What is there left for me to do,
But fly, fly

From the cruel sky,

And hide in the deepest deeps-and die!
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. (Barry Cornwall.)

SHE IS A MAID OF ARTLESS GRACE.

SHE is a maid of artless grace,
Gentle in form, and fair of face.

Tell me, thou ancient mariner,
That sailest on the sea,
If ship, or sail, or evening star,
Be half so fair as she!

Tell me, thou gallant cavalier,
Whose shining arms I see,

If steed, or sword, or battle-field,

Be half so fair as she!

Tell me, thou swain, that guard'st thy flock

Beneath the shadowy tree,

If flock, or vale, or mountain-ridge,

Be half so fair as she!

Translation of HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW,

GIL VICENTE. (Portuguese.)