The oriole, flitting stoops and sips
A soft sweet kiss from the lily's lips-
Who taught the oriole to steal so?
None say they know.

Whether the oriole stops and thinks,

Or whether he simply stoops and drinks,
Saying only it suits him well,-

This who can tell?

We marvel whither this life-stream tends,
And how remote are its hidden ends;-
But life and loving soon slip over
Time and the lover.

A kiss is all ;-a sip and a song,
A day is short, and a year is not long.
Loving would double-but thinking stole
Half from the whole.

JAMES HERBERT MORSE.

CONSTANCY.

I AM but constant as yon constant rocks,
That have their bases under ocean's floor,

That yield no piteous span, receive no score,

Though ships make thither, waves deal shocks on

shocks.

I am but constant as the sea, whose flocks,

How wide soe'er they wander, evermore

Morning and evening crowd the vacant shore,

As beck of her who smiles through silvery locks;

Constant, but as the oak now bare and dry,
That soon the genial season shall restore,
And its gray arms with fluttering honors fill;
Or as the violet, that seems to die,
Yet can its azure angel raise it still,

To greet the coming springtime, as before.

EDITH M. THOMAS.

BEST.

MOTHER, I see with your nursery light,
Leading your babies, all in white

To their sweet rest;

Christ, the Good Shepherd, carries mine to-night, And that is best.

I cannot help tears, when I see them twine
Their fingers in yours, and their bright curls shine
On your warm breast;

But the Saviour's is purer than yours or mine,
He can love best!

You tremble each hour because your arms
Are weak; your heart is wrung with alarm.
And sore opprest;

My darlings are safe, out of reach of harms,
And that is best.

You know, over yours may hang even now
Pain and disease, whose fulfilling slow
Naught can arrest;

Mine in God's gardens run to and fro,
And that is best.

You know that of yours, your feeblest one
And dearest may live long years alone,

Unloved, unblest;

Mine are cherished of saints around God's throne, And that is best.

You must dread for yours the crime that sears,
Dark guilt unwashed by repentant tears,

And unconfessed;

Mine entered spotless on eternal years,
O, how much the best!

But grief is selfish; I cannot see
Always why I should so stricken be,
More than the rest;

But I know that, as well as for them, for me

God did the best!

HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

TO-MORROW'S NEWS.

THERE will be news to-morrow:
News of sorrow

Maybe; hard, and sharp, and cutting;
Shutting

Off a breath of sweetness;

Life's completeness

Shattering further:

Clashing hard on one another

Hope and faith; but God will choose

The wisest news.

If I to-night,

Were given to write,

By my own will, the words to shape
To-morrow's course, sleep would escape
Me, and the wings

Of my light heart be bound. God ordereth things.
And I but pray:

Shape Thou my destiny,
And use me to Thy will,

Or, let me lie quite still

Within Thy hand.

The news

Will be as God shall choose.

GEORGE KRingle.

IN REVERIE.

IN the west, the weary Day

Folds its amber wings and dies;
Night, the long delaying Night,
Walks abroad in starry guise.

Rest more precious than a sleep,

Silence sweeter than a dream,—
These enfold me as I float,

Idle waif on idle stream.

In the rippling trees I hear

Flowing waves and dipping oars ;
And beloved voices near,

Seem to steal from fading shores.

Fainter, fainter, fainter still,

By no breath of passion crossed,
With the tide I drift and glide

Out to sea-and all is lost.

HARRIET MCEWEN KIMBall.

KNOWING.

ONE summer day, to a young child I said, "Write to thy mother, boy." With earnest face,

And laboring fingers all unused to trace

The mystic characters, he bent his head

(That should have danced amid the flowers instead)

Over the blurred page for a half-hour's space; Then with a sigh that burdened all the place Cried, "Mamma knows!" and out to sunshine

sped.

O soul of mine, when tasks are hard and long, And life so crowds thee with its stress and

strain

That thou, half fainting, art too tired to pray, Drink thou this wine of blessing and be strong! God knows! What though the lips be dumb with pain,

Or the pen drops? He knows what thou wouldst

say.

JULIA C. R. DORR.

COUNSEL.

If thou shouldst bid thy friend farewell,

-But for one night though that farewell should

be

Press thou his hand in thine; how canst thou tell

How far from thee