Reverence thy loveliness- the outward type
Of things we understand not, nor behold
But as in a glass, darkly; wear it thou
With awful gladness, glad humility,

That not contemns, nor boasts, nor is ashamed,
But lifts its face up prayerfully to heaven:
"Thou who hast made me, make me worthy
thee!"

Miss Muloch.

"FADING, STILL FADING."

FADING, still fading! is traced on each flower,
And written with gold in the west,

When crimson-tinged clouds, at sunset's sweet hour,

Raise the heart to the land of the blest.

Faded and gone are the hopes of our youth,

That painted the future so fair;

And, O, how impressive these three words of truth,

66

Fading, still fading!" ah, yes, every where!

Fading, still fading! wherever I turn,

Some beautiful thing is passing away;

For Death claims the fairest to sleep in his urn, Far down in the graveyard's cold clay.

John W. Beayell.

A LOST LOVE.

So fair and yet so desolate;
So wan, and yet so young;
O, there is grief too deep for tears,
Too sealed for tell-tale tongue!
With a faded floweret in her hand,
Poor little hand so white!

And dim blue eye, from her casement high
She looks upon the night.

Only a little rosebud

Only a simple flower

But it blooms no more as it seemed to bloom

Through many a lone, lone hour.

As they float from her fevered touch away-
The petals withered and brown -

All the hopes she deemed too bright to be dreamed
Sink trembling and fluttering down.

It needs no hush of the Present

To call back the sweet, calm Past;

The lightest summer murmuring

May be heard through the wintry blast ;
And the wind is rough with sob and with sough
To-night upon gable and tree,

Till the bare elms wail like spectres pale,
And the pines like a passionate sea.

But she thinks of a dreamy twilight

On the garden walk below,

Of the laurels whispering in their sleep,
And the white rose in full blow.
The early moon had sunk away
Like some pale queen, to die

In the costly shroud of an opal cloud
To the June air's tremulous sigh.

All, all too freshly real;

The soft subdued eclipse,

Hand in hand, and heart in heart,

And the thrill of the wedded lips; Those tender memories, how they flush

Pale cheek and brow again,

Though heart be changed, and lip estranged, That swore such loving then!

"Tis but the old, old story
Sung so often in vain ;

For man all the freedom of passion,
For woman the calm and the pain.
Tell it the soul whose grief is read

In the poor, pale, suffering face,
It will still cling on to love that is gone
With the warmth of its first embrace.