OLIVIA AND DICK PRIMROSE.

A RUSTIC maiden, delicately fair,

With sweet mute lips and eyes serene and mild,

That look straight sunward, while with gentle air

Clings to her side a little loving child, Linking a chain of daisies; this is all, And yet methinks old memories bestir At sight of this maid-lily, fair and tall,

Sweet as the rose the dainty hands of her Enclose in careless chains and happy thrall.

I see the gentle vicar, old and kind,

Clouds come coldly over the sea;

praise,

All the quaint story rises to my mind,

The meadow bank that bloomed with flowering days:

And in the hay-field, now I seem to see
Olivia stand with happy downcast eyes,
Singing with simple girlish minstrelsy;

While o'er the ethereal blue of sumner skies Long feathery lines of cloud float restfully.

He sang of happy home, who home had none, Of sweet hearth joys whose way was lone and bleak,

And oft his voice rang out with truest tone When wintry winds froze tears upon his cheek.

A deathless fount of joy was ever springing From out his bright child-nature pure and sweet,

Soft comforting and surest healing bringing; And when earth's sharpest thorns pierced

A CHRISTMAS-DAY MEMORY.
THE dawn came stealing over the hill,
The winds were silent, the earth was still;
Deep in the woodland, russet and bare,
The violet breathed on the winter air;
Last summer's leaves lay withered and wet
In mossy paths where the branches met;
And on the top of the beech-tree brown,
The frost was weaving a silver crown

On Christmas-day in the morning.
Small birds woke up under cottage eaves,
In nests sunk deep in the ivy leaves;
As through the lattice the slow light crept
A sleeper wakened, and smiled, and wept,
For God was kind, and the gift he brought
With prayer and sorrow had long been sought;
The prayer was answered, the sorrow past,
A new life dawned for that soul at last

On Christmas-day in the morning.
Solemn and still in the early day,
Down in the valley the churchyard lay;
Over the sods of a grave, new-made,
The pallid rays of the dawning strayed;

Is still a wonder

And glory to behold:

THE ANCHOR. THE rust is red upon its sides; About it drifts the crumbling sand; While noon and night the restless tides Murmur far down upon the strand. But never tide shall touch it more, Nor flying foam nor salt sea spray. There it has lain for many a day, Since the "Oscar," sailing across the bay, Went down in sight of shore.

O eager eyes that sought in vain

To pierce the darkness of that night!
O trembling hands that strove to gain
The haven near, and failed outright!
Some died with faces heavenward set,
Some watching still for the nearer land;
This is their anchor that lies here yet,
Half buried in the sand.

O Thou who in the days of old
Didst walk by restless Galilee,
Look, and in pity still behold

The toilers on life's troubled sea,
Lest our dim eyes should look in vain
For stars in heaven, or lights on shore;
Lest in the darkness we should gain
Our haven nevermore.
Sunday Magazine.

H. M. C.