My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary ;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

THE NIGHT IS STILL.

THE night is still, the moon looks kind,
The dew hangs jewels in the heath,
An ivy climbs across thy blind

And throws a light and misty wreath.

The dew hangs jewels in the heath,

Buds bloom for which the bee has pined; I haste along, I quicker breathe,

The night is still, the moon looks kind.

Buds bloom for which the bee has pined,
The primrose slips its jealous sheath,
As up the flower-watched path I wind
And come thy window-ledge beneath.

The primrose slips its jealous sheath,-
Then open wide that churlish blind,
And kiss me through the ivy wreath!
The night is still, the moon looks kind.

SLEEP.

EDITH M. THOMAS.

WHEN to soft Sleep we give ourselves away,
And in a dream as in a fairy bark

Drift on and on through the enchanted dark
To purple daybreak-little thought we pay
To that sweet bitter world we know by day.
We are clean quit of it, as is a lark

So high in heaven no human eye can mark
The thin swift pinion cleaving through the gray.
Till we awake ill fate can do no ill,

The resting heart shall not take up again

The heavy load that yet must make it bleed;

For this brief space the loud world's voice is still, No faintest echo of it brings us pain.

How will it be when we shall sleep indeed?

UNREST.

T. B. ALDRICH.

FROM a vision of fright,

I woke in the night,

And lay listened long ;

But I only heard the crowing cock,

And the hollow stroke of the midnight clock,

And the sleepers breathing strong.

Whether it was the witching time,

Or something recently read

Of a horrible novelty of crime,

And the number of men found dead

I shuddered, I shook at the noise of a mouse,
And could not close my weary eyes,
But I seemed to hear the muffled cries
Of murder, in the house!

I drew the casement curtain aside,
And gazed on the midnight heaven-
On the myriad systems sprinkled wide,
And the sisterly Pleiades seven-
Luminous over the beautiful sea,

Looking like souls that were just forgiven,
And smilingly chiding me!

66

66

Ah fool! ah, weak of faith," I said,

'The angels are watching thee overhead; And however men pass the day or night,

By the Merciful One all is ordered aright!"

HENRY S. CORNWELL.

THE BURDEN OF NIGHT.

How dark it grows! The griev'd light of day
Down the horizon takes its way,

Yet leaves upon the jagged mountain's crust
A half-burned ember glimmering in the West ;-
As some vast army, moving in the night,

Should leave its smouldering camp-fires still alight

Whose mournful red awhile the gloaming stains,— Unsatisfied, reproachful, as it wanes.

How dark it grows-how dark!

How dark it is! The deeper purpling sky,
Lashed with dull clouds, keeps gloomy watch on
high,

All hope of light, all glimpse of Heaven, debars,
Withholds the planets and denies the stars—
The darkness deepens; brain and vision reel,
Struck by the gloom I cannot, but feel,
As felt old Egypt, when the gathering might
Of God's displeasure blotted out the sight,—
How dark it is-how dark!

So felt old Egypt, while the rivers hid
The mystery of Sphinx and Pyramid,
While their stark profiles cut the starless skies,
While she lay dumb with wide unvisioned eyes,
Nor knew what aeons over her must roll
Before that cloud is lifted from her soul-
Such is the burden and the load of night.
When was it day? When will be morning-light?
How dark it is-how dark!

S. R. ELLIOT.

INSOMNIA.

O WOULD God call a halt,-one moment's halt
To that procession marching through my brain!

I would awake in thankful quiet lie

And watch the long defile begin again;

Would make no further dry-mouthed moans for sleep;

Would take up patience in sweet hope's default, And mutely bear the burden of the hours,

If God would call a halt,-one moment's halt!

ANNE REEVE ALDRICH.

A PRAYER.

A MORROW must come on
When I shall wake to weep;
But just for some short hours,
God, give me sleep!

I ask not hope's return;
As I have sowed I reap.
Grief must awake with dawn,-
Yet, oh, to sleep!

No dreams, dear God, no dreams :

Mere slumber, dull and deep,
Such as thou givest brutes,-

Sleep, only sleep!

ANNE REEVe Aldrich.

WHO KNOWS.

JUNE leaves are green, pink is the rose,
White bloom the lilies; yet who knows,
Or swears he knows the reason why?
None dare say-" I.”