Ere she hasten'd to the spirit-land;
Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing;
Broken band!

There my Mary blest me with her hand!

I have come to see that grave once more,
And the sacred place where we delighted,
Where we worshipp'd in the days of yore,
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core !

I have come to see that grave once more.

Angel, said he sadly, I am old!

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; Now, why I sit here thou hast been told : In his eye another pearl of sorrow, Down it rolled!

Angel, said he sadly, I am old!

By the wayside, on a mossy stone,

Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing:
Still I marked him, sitting there alone,
All the landscape, like a page perusing;
Poor, unknown,

By the wayside, on a mossy stone!

RALPH HOYT.

THE DAYS GONE BY.

O THE days gone by! O the days gone by! The apples in the orchard, and the pathway through the rye;

The chirrup of the robin, and the whistle of the

quail

As he piped across the meadows sweet as any nightingale ;

When the bloom was on the clover, and the blue was in the sky,

And my happy heart brimmed over-in the days gone by.

In the days gone by, when my naked feet were

tripped

By the honeysuckle tangles where the water-lilies

dipped,

And the ripples of the river lipped the moss along the brink,

Where the placid-eyed and lazy-footed cattle came to drink,

And the tilting snipe stood fearless of the truant's wayward cry

And the splashing of the swimmer, in the days gone by.

O the days gone by! O the days gone by!

The music of the laughing lip, the lustre of the

eye;

The childish faith in fairies, and Aladdin's magic ring

The simple, soul-reposing, glad belief in every

thing.

For life was like a story, holding neither sob nor

sigh,

In the golden, olden glory of the days gone by.

SORROW AND JOY.

J. W. RILEY,

TELL me what is sorrow? It is a garden-bed.
And what is joy? It is a little rose,

Which in that garden grows.

I plucked it in my youth so royal red,
To weave it in a garland for my head;
It pricked my hand, I let it drop again,
And now I look and long for it in vain.

Tell me what is sorrow? It is an endless sea.
And what is joy? It is a little pearl,
Round which the waters whirl.

I dived deep down, they gave it up to me,
To keep it where my costly jewels be;
It dazzled me, I let it fall again,

And now I look and long for it in vain.

Tell me what is sorrow? It is a gloomy cage.
And what is joy? It is a little bird,
Whose song therein is heard.

Opening the door, for I was never sage,
I took it from its perch; with sudden rage

It bit me-bit, I let it go again,

And now I look and long for it in vain.

Tell me when my sorrow shall ended, ended be? And when return the joy that long since fled?

Not till the garden-bed

Restores the rose; not till the endless sea

Restores the pearl; not till the gloomy cage Restores the bird; not, poor, old man, till age Which sorrow is itself, is youth again—

And so I look and long for it in vain!

RICHARD HENRY STODDard.

GRAY HAIR IN YOUTH.

WHAT does youth with silvered crown?
Snows of winter come not down
Till the frost hath made its way,
And the night outmeasured day;
Till the harvest all is stored,
And the cordial vintage poured
That can heavy memories drown,
What does youth with silver crown?
Passion's fires have burned apace
Laying waste the summer's grace,
Than the frost more cruel keen,
Making youth as age be seen,
Save upon his silken hairs

Ashes white, not snow, he bears,-
Mournful frame for morning face!
Passion's fires have burned apace.

EDITH M. THOMAS.

ICHABOD.

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
Which once he wore!

The glory from his gray hairs gone
For evermore!

Revile him not,-the tempter hath

A snare for all;

And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath
Befit his fall!

Oh! dumb is passion's story rage,

When he who might

Have lighted up and led his age,
Falls back in night.

Scorn! Would the angels laugh, to mark
A bright soul driven,
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,
From hope and Heaven?

Let not the land, once proud of him,

Insuit him now;

Nor brand with deeper shame his dim,
Dishonor'd brow.

But let its humbled sons, instead,

From sea to lake,

A long lament, as for the dead,

In sadness make.