And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,

And my years are well nigh told.

It is very true; it is very true;

I'm old, and " I 'bide my time :"

But my heart will leap at a scene like this
And I half renew my prime.

Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring ;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.

I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smothered call,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,

And I shall be glad to go;

For the world is at best a weary place,

And my pulse is getting low;

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail

In treading its gloomy way;

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, To see the young so gay.

A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR:

SHE had been told that God made all the stars
That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood
Watching the coming of the twilight on,

As if it were a new and perfect world,

And this were its first eve. She stood alone
By the low window, with the silken lash
Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth
Half parted with the new and strange delight
Of beauty that she could not comprehend,
And had not seen before. The purple folds
Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky
That looked so still and delicate above,

Filled her young heart with gladness, and the eve
Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still
Stood looking at the west with that half-smile,
As if a pleasant thought were at her heart.
Presently, in the edge of the last tint

Of sunset, where the blue was melted in
To the faint golden mellowness, a star
Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight
Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands,
Her simple thought broke forth expressively-

Father, dear father, God has made a star!"

MAY.

Oн the merry May has pleasant hours,

And dreamily they glide,

As if they floated like the leaves
Upon a silver tide.

The trees are full of crimson buds,
And the woods are full of birds,

And the waters flow to music

Like a tune with pleasant words.

The verdure of the meadow-land

Is creeping to the hills,