Though leaf and blossom perish,
And zephyrs pass away,
The glory that I cherish

Will never so decay ;-
HEARTS, to whom no weather
Change or blight can bring,
These love on together,
In winter as in spring.

DIRGE.

W. HOWITT.

Chorus of Youths.

SISTER, thou art fled! Sister, in a goodly time,

Thou hast sought a better clime;

Ere thy evil days were come,
Thou hast hastened home.

Sister, blest art thou!

Blest are they who take their flight,
While life's dews yet sparkle bright;

While the bloom is on the tree,-
Blest who pass like thee!

Happy, happy doom!

Loved below, desired above;

In life, in death enshrined in love: Bright on earth, and brighter where Every soul is fair.

Sister, sister, joy!

On the wings of youth upborne,
Through the regions of the morn;
Gladness, glory go with thee,

To eternity!

Chorus of Old Men.

Daughter, thou art fled;
But we linger, faint and old,
Till the bright earth waxeth cold;
Till the dew is all exhaled!

Till the bloom hath failed.

Daughter, blest art thou!

Where the earth's first bright ones trod,
There we find the burial sod:

The dwellings of the patriarchs stand
In a desert land!

Happy is thy doom!

Ours is, here to stand and mark
How the lights of life grow dark;
How the loved ones drop away-
And feel the soul decay.

Daughter, daughter, joy!
None of all these ills are thine,
Thou shalt not in tears repine;

Spent in frame, and spent in heart,
And unwept depart!

General Chorus.

Maiden, maiden, joy!

On the wings of youth upborne,
Through the regions of the morn;
Gladness, glory go with thee,
To eternity!

LIFE.

C. C. COLTON.

How long shall man's imprisoned spirit groan 'Twixt doubt of heaven and deep disgust of earth? Where all worth knowing never can be known,

And all that can be known, alas is nothing worth.

Untaught by saint, by cynic, or by sage,

And all the spoils of time that load their shelves, We do not quit, but change our joys in age

Joys framed to stifle thought, and lead us from ourselves.

The drug, the cord, the steel, the flood, the flame,
Turmoil of action, tedium of rest,

And lust of change, though for the worst, proclaim
How dull life's banquet is-how ill at ease the guest.

Known were the bill of fare before we taste,

Who would not spurn the banquet and the board— Prefer th' eternal, but oblivious past,

To life's frail-fretted thread, and death's suspended sword?

He that the topmost stone of Babel plann'd,
And he that braved the crater's boiling bed-
Did these a clearer, closer view command

Of heaven or hell, we ask, than the blind herd they led?

Or he that in Valdarno did prolong

The Night, her rich star-studded page to readCould he point out, 'midst all that brilliant throng, His fixed and final home, from fleshly thraldom freed?

Minds that have scann'd Creation's vast domain,
And secrets solved, till then to sages seal'd,
Whilst Nature own'd their intellectual reign
Extinct, have nothing known, or nothing have re-
vealed.

Devouring grave! we might the less deplore

Th' extinguish'd lights that in thy darkness dwell, Wouldst thou, from that lost zodiac, one restore, That might th' enigma solve, and Doubt, man's tyrant, quell.

To live in darkness-in despair to die-
Is this indeed the boon to mortals given?
Is there no port-no rock of refuge nigh?

There is to those who fix their anchor-hope in
Heaven.

Turn then, O man! and cast all else aside;

Direct thy wandering thoughts to things aboveLow at the Cross bow down-in that confide,

Till doubt be lost in faith, and bliss secured in love.

BRIGHT THOUGHTS FOR DARK HOURS.

R. F. HOUSMAN.

I WOULD I were a Fairy, as light as falling snows,
To do whate'er my fancy bade, to wander where I chose :
I'd visit many a pleasant spot-a merry life I'd lead,
With all of bright and beautiful to serve me at my need.

I'd never give a single thought to misery or careMy heart should have the gladness of a wild bird in the air

And if perchance a tempest should gather in the sky, I'd crouch beneath a lily-bell until the cloud passed by.

The violet-the cowslip-the little warbling bee,
That cannot for his life withold the music of his glee-
The butterfly, that silent thing of many gorgeous dyes,
The denizen of garden realms-a pilgrim of the skies.

The starry-twinkling glowworm, that like a drop of dew, Sheds faintly on the trembling grass a line of emerald hue

The daisy and the daffodil-the small gem on the leaOf these I'd make my playmates, and these my friends

should be.

I'd hie me to the greenwood-I'd sit me down and sing, Beneath the quiet curtain of the nightingale's soft wing! My pillow should be rose-leaves without a single thorn, And there I'd chaunt my roundelay until the blush of

morn.