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Horas non numero nisi serenas." Dial of Time, say, what are the hours

That you number in joy and play?
Do you record keep of the sweet spring-flowers,

Of the glow of the summer day ? -
Of the sunrise walk thro’ the balmy dew,

Of the march o'er the glacier snow,
Of the moonlight ramble when heaven is blue,

Of the whispering soft and low,
The sigh and the kiss of love's sweet birth,

Which as joys to the world are given,
Of the deeper bliss when the loves of earth

Are changed to the love of heaven?
“O, I reck not,” he cried, “ of aught beside

These moments of light and glee
Let the dark ones fade like the ebbing tide,

Or the gleam on the wintry sea.”
“Then give me,” I said, “O dial of Time,

Those hours that you now despise, Let me number them o'er to the church bells' chime,

To our dear one's memories.”
“For the loved and the lost return no more,

In the glisten and glare of light,
But the angel of grace will these restore

In the moments of gloom and night.” “O careless dial, take, take the hours

That you treasure in light and glee,
But the scornéd moments of storm and showers,

Give them back, give them back to me.”

G. H. S.

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To wander thus through every scene

Endeared by classic story,
To bask 'mid nature's fairest sheen

Or mourn o'er vanished glory,
May many an idle hour improve

Or weary one beguile,
But trust me, dear, my home of love

Is in my native isle.
For there,—tho' clouds may dull the day

Or tempests chill the plains,
'Tis better than the brightest ray

That sparkles but on chains;
Sepulchral thoughts intrude a gloom

Tho'robed in sunshine all-
The land but gleams like Glory's tomb

With gorgeous skies its pall.
The vanished beauty shines no more,

Or but survives in stone-
Its spirit owns no other shore

While thou art in my own. 'Mid wrecks of time and splendour gone,

'Neath arch and column broken, I feel how frail is passion's tone

And dread each promise spoken.-
I turn, where shines the God of Day,

Where flows the eternal river,
And trust that hopes as bright as they

Endure like them for ever.

H. Porter Smith.


As o'er the deep the seaman roves

With cloud and storm above him, Far, far from all the smiles he loves,

And all the hearts that love him, 'Tis sweet to find some friendly mast

O'er that same ocean sailing, And listen in the hollow blast

To hear the pilot's hailing.

On rolls the sea ! and brief the bliss,

And farewell, follows greeting ;
On rolls the sea! one hour is his

For parting and for meeting;
And who shall tell, on sea or shore,

In sorrow or in laughter,
If he shall see that vessel more,

Or hear that voice hereafter?

And thus, as on through shine and shower

My fickle shallop dances, And trembles at all storms that lower, * And courts all summer glances, 'Tis very sweet, when thoughts oppress

And follies fail to cheer me, To find some looks of loveliness,

Some tones of kindness near me.

And yet I feel, while hearts are gay

And smiles are bright around me, That those who greet me on my way

Must leave me as they found me, To rove again, as erst I roved,

Thro’ winter and rough weather; And think of all the friends I loved,

But loved and lost together :

And scenes and smiles, so pure and glad,

Are found and worshipped only
To make our sadness seem more sad,

Our loneliness more lonely ;-
It matters not! a pleasant dream

At best can be but dreaming ; And if the true may never beam,

Oh! who would slight the seeming?

And o'er the world my foot may roam,

Thro' foreign griefs and pleasures, And other climes may be my home,

And other hearts my treasures; But in the mist of memory

Shall time and space be cheated, And those kind looks revived shall be,

And those soft tones repeated !


By the soft green light in the woody glade,
On the banks of moss where thy childhood play'd,
By the household tree thro' which thine eye
First looked in love to the summer sky,
By the dewy gleam, by the very breath
Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath,
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell,
Holy and precious—oh! guard it well.

By the sleepy ripple of the stream,
Which hath lulled thee into many a dream,
By the shiver of the ivy leaves
To the wind of morn at thy casement eaves,
By the bee's deep murmur in the limes,
By the music of the Sabbath chimes,
By every sound of thy native shade,
Stronger and dearer the spell is made.

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