The angel sought so far away I welcome at my door.

The airs of spring may never play
Among the ripening corn,
Nor freshness of the flowers of May
Blow through the autumn morn;

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look Through fringèd lids to heaven, And the pale aster in the brook Shall see its image given ;

That all the jarring notes of life
Seem blending in a psalm,
And all the angles of its strife
Slow rounding into calm.

And so the shadows fall apart,

And so the west winds play; And all the windows of my heart I open to the day.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

SONNET.

The south wind softly sigh, And sweet, calm days, in golden haze Melt down the amber sky.

Not less shall manly deed and word
Rebuke an age of wrong;

The graven flowers that wreathe the sword

Make not the blade less strong.

But smiting hands shall learn to heal,-
To build as to destroy;

Nor less my heart for others feel
That I the more enjoy.

All as God wills, who wisely heeds
To give or to withhold,
And knoweth more of all my needs
Than all my prayers have told!

Enough that blessings undeserved

Have mark'd my erring track;— That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved, His chastening turn'd me back ;

That more and more a Providence
Of love is understood,
Making the springs of time and sense

Sweet with eternal good;

That death seems but a cover'd way

Which opens into light, Wherein no blinded child can stray Beyond the Father's sight;

That care and trial seem at last, Through Memory's sunset air, Like mountain-ranges overpast, In purple distance fair;—

Crumbling away beneath our very feet; Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing

In current unperceived, because so fleet; Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing

But tares, self-sown, have overtopp'd the wheat;

Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing

And still, oh still, their dying breath is

sweet;

And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us

Of that which made our childhood

sweeter still;

And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us
A nearer good to cure an older ill;
And sweet are all things, when we learn to
prize them

Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them!

AUBREY DE VERE.

THE STREAM OF LIFE.
O STREAM descending to the sea,
Thy mossy banks between,
The flow'rets blow, the grasses grow,
The leafy trees are green.

In garden-plots the children play,
The fields the laborers till,
And houses stand on either hand,

And thou descendest still.

O life descending into death,
Our waking eyes behold
Parent and friend thy lapse attend,
Companions young and old.

"With you! and quit my Susan's side!
With you!" the hapless husband cried;
"Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard!
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared :
My thoughts on other matters go:
This is my wedding-day, you know."
What more he urged, I have not heard ;
His reasons could not well be stronger;
So Death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.
Yet calling up a serious look-
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke-
"Neighbor," he said, "farewell! No more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour;
And farther, to avoid all blame

Of cruelty upon my name,

main,

And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you're summon'd to the grave.
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,

In hopes you'll have no more to say,
And grant a kind reprieve,
But, when I call again this way,

Well pleased the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his
horse,

The willing Muse shall tell.
He chaffer'd then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,

Nor thought of Death as near;
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He pass'd his hours in peace.
But while he view'd his wealth increase,
While thus along Life's dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood
As all alone he sate,
Th' unwelcome messenger of Fate

Once more before him stood. Half kill'd with anger and surprise, "So soon return'd!" old Dodson cries. "So soon, d'ye call it?" Death replies :

"Surely, my friend, you're but in jest!

Since I was here before 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore."

"So much the worse," the clown rejoin'd;

"To spare the aged would be kind:
However, see your search be legal ;
And your authority-is't regal?
Else you are come on a fool's errand,
With but a secretary's warrant.

Besides, you promised me Three Warnings,

Which I have look'd for nights and morn

ings;

But for that loss of time and ease,

I can recover damages."

"I know," cries Death, "that at the best

I seldom am a welcome guest;
But don't be captious, friend, at least:
I little thought you'd still be able
To stump about your farm and stable;
Your years have run to a great length;
I wish you joy, though, of your strength!"
Hold," says the farmer, "not so fast!
I have been lame these four years past."
no great wonder," Death re-
plies:

"And

"However, you still keep your eyes; And sure, to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends." "Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight."

"This is a shocking tale, 'tis true, But still there's comfort left for you: Each strives your sadness to amuse; I warrant you hear all the news." "There's none," cries he; "and if there

were,

I'm grown so deaf I could not hear."
"Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoin'd,
"These are unwarrantable yearnings;
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
You've had your three sufficient warn-
ings;

So, come along, no more we'll part;"
He said, and touch'd him with his dart.
And now old Dodson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate-so ends my tale.

HESTER THRALE PIOZZI.

NOW AND AFTERWARDS.

"Two hands upon the breast, and labor is past." RUSSIAN PROVERB.

"Two hands upon the breast,

And labor's done;

Two pale feet cross'd in rest,—
The race is won;

Two eyes with coin-weights shut,
And all tears cease;

Two lips where grief is mute,

Anger at peace :"

So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot; God in His kindness answereth not.

"Two hands to work addrest

Aye for His praise;
Two feet that never rest

Walking His ways;
Two eyes that look above
Through all their tears;
Two lips still breathing love,

Not wrath, nor fears:"

So pray we afterwards, low on our knees; Pardon those erring prayers! Father, hear these!

DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.

TOMMY'S DEAD.

You may give over plough, boys,

You may take the gear to the stead, All the sweat o' your brow, boys,

Will never get beer and bread.
The seed's waste, I know, boys,
There's not a blade will grow, boys,
'Tis cropp'd out, I trow, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

Send the colt to fair, boys,

He's going blind, as I said,
My old eyes can't bear, boys,

To see him in the shed;
The cow's dry and spare, boys,
She's neither here nor there, boys,
I doubt she's badly bred;
Stop the mill to-morn, boys,
There'll be no more corn, boys,

Neither white nor red;
There's no sign of grass, boys,
You may sell the goat and the ass, boys,
The land's not what it was, boys,

And the beasts must be fed;