The noble monarch of the woods, scathed by the light

ning's glare,

Waves to the gale his naked arms, of all their glories bare; But round the sere and withered trunk the frost-dyed ivy

clings,

To hide the mourful ruin with its fondly twining rings.

So the rich love of woman's heart, that gift of priceless

worth,

Oft twines its strong, its deathless clasp, 'round the frail things of earth,

And when the fearful blight of sin o'er the loved one has passed,

It still lives on 'mid storm and shade, enduring to the last.

Alas, the glorious summer gifts are fading all away;
The blossoms that we loved to tend are gone to sad decay;
The frost-wind's breath has left a blight like the mildew
of the heart,

When the garnered hopes of many a year like sunset clouds depart.

Yet lovely are the varied hues that nature has put on, Though her rich robes of changeful green, and bright flower-wreaths are gone;

Though the tall, graceful beeches wear the russet tinge of

grief,

The sombre shadows are relieved by the crimson maple leaf.

And high o'er all, in princely pride, towers the dark evergreen,

Fit emblem of the hopes that live when fades earth's loveliest scene:

Though winter's bleaching tempests rave, the landscape to deform,

The pine tree's lordly plumes, still bright, wave proudly 'mid the storm.

Thus when the wintry storms of time have swept our landscape drear,

And the flowers that formed love's beauteous wreath are faded all and sere,

Hope's plant, perennial in the breast, tells of a brighter

home,

Of vernal fields, and living streams, where storm and blight ne'er come.

And though our feeble bark were wrecked on sorrow's weltering wave,

And all the yearning heart held dear were garnered in

the grave,

Still faith, white-pinioned seraph, waves her wand of rainbow sheen,

And points, through golden vistas, to the bowers of fadeless green.

MOUNT AUBURN.

BY MISS S. C. EDGARTON.

How still they sleep, the beautiful and blest,
In their bright, shadowy beds! How sweet the rest
That follows the hard turmoil of earth's years!
From their long pilgrimage of woes and tears
They have come home at last. Meekly they sped
To reach the welcome city of the dead,

And patiently they struggled through the waste
Of human life. But now they freely taste
The pure, sweet fountains and the cooling breath

Of the oasis, peaceful, holy death.

By whom has this bright solitude been felt

A dreary place? By him who long hath dwelt

In living solitudes, 'mid crowds and mirth;

Whose heart is lone and dark, and wrapped in earth,

Having no holy throngs of seraphim

Forever round it, with their low, soft hymn,

Or gentle converse, making weariness

Itself a rest, and woe but love's caress.

But to the pure in heart, the blest and good,
Whose spirits are by angel-voices wooed,
Who dwell with holy visiters from heaven,
And wear the snow-white vesture they have given,
To such, -O! is not this the long-sought shrine

Through whose bright entrance, hallowed and divine,
They pass unto their Deity? How sweet,
How more than beautiful, this still retreat
To them! The voices of the dead come low
And silent to their hearts, and they would go
Most gratefully unto their arms, and press
Their pale, cold lips to theirs,

a mute earess.

Bright city of the dead! thou silent place
Of multitudes! through thy green shades I trace
The paths of living feet. Around thy shrines
And gleaming temples may be seen the lines
Of earthly footsteps. But within, the dead,
The dead, alone, are worshippers! O tread

With hushed and hallowed thought through these lone streets!

Are they not wandering here, the viewless forms

Of spirits whose forsaken dust the worms

Are wasting? Do not they, too, love these shades,

And the sweet breath of flowers? Are not these glades Peopled with pure intelligences, astray

From their forgotten habitudes of clay?

Who says they are not? Have ye never heard
Low spirit-sounds, as though the winds had stirred
Moss-roses in their sleep? Have ye not felt
Soft touches on the heart, that thrill and melt
Its secret currents? and may these not be

The voices and the tokens of the free?

The bright, the beautiful, the unchained souls
That linger 'mid these haunts and flowery knolls?
O feel them here, ye living, as ye tread!

Feel the pure spirits of the holy dead

Communing with your hearts. Their words are low,
But they shall press into your being like the flow

Of deep, rich wellsprings. Faith and love divine
Will come to you, and make their earthly shrine
Within your spirits, and the soothing sound
Of heavenly voices, gathering softly round,
Will breathe their worship there in love profound.

How softly through these cedars steals the air!
The very atmosphere seems hushed in prayer,
Or softened into madrigals. The bells
Of the convolvulus ring out low knells,
And from the moss-rose, creeping o'er the mound,
Steals forth the timid spirit of a sound

Trembling to find itself among the tombs.

Around the graves, how many a wild-flower blooms

Of its own generous will; and leaves and vines,
As though the dead themselves would deck their shrines,
And had implanted, with an unseen hand,

A richer verdure from a fairer land.

The dead! O, they were bright and good who lie
Within these shades. 'T were sweet to die

And sleep with such! Such, gentle friend, wert thou,
With thy warm heart, and thought-illumined brow.
Thy presence here makes doubly sweet the spot,

For love, and memory, and grief are not
So vivid in our thought of those whose eyes
Have never turned to ours such soft replies
As thine were wont, blest spirit, in our hours

Of lone communion. Sleep thee, friend, 'mid flowers,
Which were thy passion; and sweet peace be thine,
For thou wert sweet, and soon wilt be- divine.

A pilgrim from the father-land rests here.
A sacred relic is his dust, and dear