But this it was that made me move
As light as carrier-birds in air;
I loved the weight I had to bear
Because it needed help of love.
Nor could I weary, heart or limb,

When mighty love would cleave in twain
The lading of a single pain,
And part it, giving half to him.

But I remained, whose hopes were dim,
Whose life, whose thoughts were litttle worth,
To wander on a darkened earth,

Where all things round me breathed of him.

O friendship, equal-poised control,

O heart, with kindliest motion warm,

O sacred essence, other form,

O solemn ghost, O crownèd soul !

Yet none could better know than I
How much of act at human hands
The sense of human will demands,
By which we dare to live or die.
Whatever way my days decline,

I felt and feel, though left alone,

His being working in mine own, The footseps of his life in mine.

My pulses therefore beat again

For other friends that once I met;
Nor can it suit me to forget

The mighty hopes that make us men.

I woo your love: I count it crime
To mourn for any overmuch;
I, the divided half of such
A friendship as had mastered time;
Which masters time, indeed, and is
Eternal, separate from fears :
The all-assuming months and years
Can take no part away from this.
O days and hours, your work is this,
To hold me from my proper place
A little while from his embrace,
For fuller gain of after bliss.

That out of distance might ensue

Desire of nearness doubly sweet; And unto meeting when we meet, Delight a hundred-fold accrue.

The hills are shadows, and they flow

From form to form, and nothing stands;
They melt like mists, the solid lands,
Like clouds they shape themselves and go.
But in my spirit will I dwell,

And dream my dream, and hold it true;
For though my lips may breathe adieu,
I cannot think the thing farewell.

FRED TENNYSON.

a

A BENEDICTION.

OD'S love and peace be with thee, where
Soe'er this soft autumnal air
Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair!
Whether through city casements comes
Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms,
Or, out among the woodland blooms,
It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face,
Imparting, in its glad embrace,
Beauty to beauty, grace to grace!

Fair nature's book together read,

The old wood-paths that knew our tread The maple shadows overhead

The hills we climbed, the river seen

By gleams along its deep ravine-
All keep thy memory fresh and green.

If, then, a fervent wish for thee
The gracious heavens will heed from me,
What should, dear heart, its burden be?

The sighing of a shaken reed—
What can I more than meekly plead
The great ness of our common need?
God's love-unchanging, pure and true--
The Paraclete white-shining through
His peace-the fall of Hermon's dew!
With such a prayer, on this sweet day.
As thou mayst hear and I may say,
I greet thee, dearest, far away!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

TO A FRIEND.

RUDDY drop of manly blood
The surging sea outweighs ;

The world uncertain comes and goes,
The lover rooted stays.

I fancied he was fled

And, after many a year,

Glowed unexhausted kindliness,

Like daily sunrise there.

My careful heart was free again;

O friend, my bosom said,

Through thee alone the sky is arched,

Through thee the rose is red;

All things through thee take nobler form

And look beyond the earth;

The mill-round of our fate appears

A sun-path in thy worth.

Me too thy nobleness has taught

To master my despair;

The fountains of my hidden life
Are through thy friendship fair.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

JEWISH HYMN IN BABYLON.

'ER Judah's land thy thunders broke, O Lord!
The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate.
Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian's
sword,

Even her foes wept to see her fallen state;
And heaps her ivory palaces became,
Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame,
Her temples sank amid the smouldering flame,
For thou didst ride the tempest cloud of fate.
O'er Judah's land thy rainbow, Lord, shall beam,
And the sad city lift her crownless head,

And songs shall wake and dancing footsteps gleam
In streets where broods the silence of the dead.
The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers,
On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers
To deck at blushing eve their bridal bowers,
And angel feet the glittering Sion tread.
The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy;

Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead thy children home;
He that went forth a tender prattling boy

Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come; .And Canaan's vines for us their fruit shall beat. And Hermon's bees their honeyed stores prepare, And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer, Where o'er the cherub-seated God full blazed the irradiate dome.

The emerald mild, the ruby gay;
Talk of my gem, Anne Hathaway !
She hath a way, with her bright eye,
Their various lustres to defy-
The jewels she, and the foil they,
So sweet to look Anne hath a way!
She hath a way,

Anne Hathaway;

To shame bright gems, Anne hath a way.

THE WIDOW'S WOOER.

E woos me with those honeyed words
That women love to hear,
Those gentle flatteries that fall
So sweet on every ear.

He tells me that my face is fair,

Too fair for grief to shade:

My cheek, he says, was never meant
In sorrow's gloom to fade.

He stands beside me, when I sing

The songs of other days,

And whispers, in love's thrilling tones,
The words of heartfelt praise;
And often in my eyes he looks,

Some answering love to see-
In vain! he there can only read
The faith of memory.

He little knows what thoughts awake

With every gentle word;

How, by his looks and tones, the founts

Of tenderness are stirrel,

The visions of my youth return,

Joys far too bright to last ;

And while he speaks of future bliss,

I think but of the past.

Like lamps in eastern sepulcnres,
Amid my heart's deep gloom,
Affection sheds its holiest light
Upon my husband's tomb.

And, as those lamps, it brought once more
To upper air, grow dim,

So my soul's love is cold and dead,
Unless it glow for him.

EMMA C. EMBURY.

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

PEEN be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days! None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long, where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts, whose truth was proven,

Like thine, are laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven To tell the world their worth.

And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thine hand in mine,
Who shared the joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and wo were thine-

It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow; But I've in vain essayed it,

And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,

The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.

FITZ GREENE HALLECK.

THE MEMORY OF THE HEART.

Ftores of dry and learned lore we gain,

We keep them in the memory of the brain;
Names, things, and facts-whate'er we knowledge
call-

There is the common ledger for them all;
And images on this cold surface traced

Make slight impression, and are soon effaced.
But we've a page, more glowing and more bright,
On which our friendship and our love to write;
That these may never from the soul depart,
We trust them to the memory of the heart.
There is no dimming, no effacement there;
Each new pulsation keeps the record clear;
Warm, golden letters all the tablet fill,
Nor lose their lustre till the heart stands still.
DANIEL WEbster.

ROBIN ADAIR.

HAT'S this dull town to me? Robin's not near

He whom I wished to see,

Wished for to hear; Where's all the joy and mirth Made life a heaven on earth, O, they're all fled with thee, Robin Adair!

What made the assembly shine? Robin Adair :

What made the ball so fine?

Robin was there :

What, when the play was o'er,
What made my heart so sore?
O, it was parting with

Robin Adair !

NO TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME.

'HERE is no time like the old time, when you and I were young,

When the buds of April blossomed, and the birds of springtime sung!

The garden's brightest glories by summer suns are nursed,

But, oh, the sweet, sweet violets, the flowers that opened first!

There is no place like the old place where you and I were born!

Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of the morn,

From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the clinging arms that bore,

Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that will lock on us no more!

There is no friend like the old friend who has shared our morning days,

No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise;

Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold,

But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets ir¦ every fold.

There is no love like the old love that we courted in our pride;

Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're fading side by side,

There are blossoms all around us with the colors of our dawn,

And I sighed to think that the traitor love
Should conquer a heart so light.
But she thought not of the future days of woe
While she carolled in tones so gay-
"The gathered rose and the stolen heart
Can charm but for a day."

A year passed on, and again I stood
By the humble cottage door;
The maiden sat at her busy wheel,
But her look was blithe no more;
The big tear stood in her downcast eyę
And with sighs I heard her say,
"The gathered rose and the stolen heart
Can charm but for a day."

Oh, well I knew what had dimmed ner eye
And made her cheek so pale:

The maid had forgotten her early song,
While she listened to love's soft tale;
She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup,
It had wasted her life away-

And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose,
Had charmed but for a day.

EMMA C. EMBURY.

AFTON WATER.

LOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes;

Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy
praise;

My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

There are ro times like the old times-they shall never be forgot!

There is no place like the old place-keep green the dear old spot!

There are no friends like our old friends—may Heaven prolong their lives!

There are no loves like our old loves-God bless our loving wives!

THE MAIDEN SAT AT HER BUSY WHEEL.

HE maiden sat at her busy wheel,

Her heart was light and free,
And ever in cheerful song broke forth
Her bosom's harmless glee :

Her song was in mockery of love,
And oft I heard her say,

"The gathered rose and the stolen heart Can charm but for a day."

I looked on the maiden's rosy cheek,
And her lip so full and bright,

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear;
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills,
Far marked with the courses of clear-winding rills!
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow!
There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave?

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes ;
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
ROBERT BURNS.