THE ISLE OF LONG AGO.

O a wonderful stream is the river Time,
As it runs through the realm of tears,
With a faultless rythm and a musical rhyme,
And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime,
As it blends with the Ocean of Years.

How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,
And the summers like buds between,

And the year in the sheaf, so they come and they gɔ,
On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,

As it glides in the shadow and sheen.

There's a magical isle up the river Time,
Where the softest of airs are playing;
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime,
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,

And the Junes with the roses are straying.

And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago,
And we bury our treasures there;

There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow;
There are heaps of dust-but we loved them so!
There are trinkets and tresses of hair;

There are fragments of song that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer;
There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings;
There are broken vows and pieces of rings,

And the garments that she used to wear.

There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore By the mirage is lifted in air,

And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before. When the wind down the river is fair.

O remembered for ave, be the blessed Isle,
All the day of our life until night;

When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,
May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight!
BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR.

THE GEOGRAPHY DEMON.

I hate my geography lesson!

It's nothing but nonsense and names To torture me so every morning,

I think it's the greatest of shames.

The brooks they flow into the rivers,
And the rivers flow into the sea;
For my part I hope they enjoy it,
But what does it matter to me?

Of late, even more I've disliked it,
And more disagreeable it seems,

Ever since that sad evening last winter,
When I had the most frightful of dreams.

It flows o'er the plains of Timbuctoo,

With the peak of Teneriffe just in view,

And the cataracts leap in the pale moonshine, As they dance o'er the cliffs of the Brandywine.

"Flee! flee! rise and flee

Away to the banks of the Tombigbee!

"We'll pass by Alaska's flowery strand,
Where the emerald towers of Pekin stand;
We'll pass them by and will rest awhile
On Michillimackinac's tropic isle;

While the apes of Barbary frisk around,
Ahd the parrots crow with a lovely sound.

"Hie! hie! rise and hie

Away to the banks of Yangtzeki!

Where the giant mountains of Oshkosh stand, And the icebergs gleam through the falling sand; While the elephant sits on the palm tree high And the cannibals feast on bad boy pie.

"Go! go! rise and go

Away to the banks of the Hoangho;

There the Chickasaw sachem makes his tea,
And the kettle boils and waits for thee.
We'll smite thee ho! and we'll lay thee low,
On the beautiful banks of the Hoangho!"

These terrible words were still sounding

Like trumpets and drums through my head, When the monster clutched tighter my shoulder, And dragged me half out of the bed.

In terror I clung to the bedpost; but the
Faithless bedpost it broke;

I screamed out aloud in my anguish,
And suddenly,- well, I awoke!

He was gone, but I cannot forget him,
That fearful geography sprite,