"Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;

I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew:
Nor yet for the ravage of Winter I mourn;
Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save.
But when shall Spring visit the mouldering urn?
O, when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?

'Twas thus, by the glare of false Science betray'd, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind;

My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.

6

O, pity, great Father of light,' then I cried,

Thy creature, who fain would not wander from Thee:

Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:

From doubt and from darkness Thou only canst free.'

And darkness and doubt are now flying away;

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn :
So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.
See Truth, Love, and Mercy in triumph descending,
And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!

On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending,
And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb."

THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE.
H. W. LONGfellow.

SAINT AUGUSTINE! well hast thou said,

That of our vices we can frame

A ladder, if we will but tread

Beneath our feet each deed of shame.

All common things, each day's events,
That with the hour begin and end,
Our pleasures and our discontents,
Are rounds by which we may ascend.

The low desire, the base design,
That makes another's virtues less;
The revel of the ruddy wine,
And all occasions of excess ;

The longing for ignoble things;

The strife for triumph more than truth;
The hardening of the heart, that brings
Irreverence for the dreams of youth;

All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,
That have their root in thoughts of ill;
Whatever hinders or impedes

The action of the nobler will;

All these must first be trampled down
Beneath our feet, if we would gain
In the bright fields of fair renown
The right of eminent domain.

We have not wings, we cannot soar;
But we have feet to scale and climb
By slow degrees, by more and more,
The cloudy summits of our time.

The mighty pyramids of stone

That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,
When nearer seen and better known,
Are but gigantic flights of stairs.

The distant mountains, that uprear
Their solid bastions to the skies,

Are cross'd by pathways, that appear
As we to higher levels rise.

The heights of great men reach'd and kept
Were not attain'd by sudden flight;
But they, while their companions slept,

Were toiling upward in the night.

Standing on what too long we bore
With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,
We may discern unseen before

A path to higher destinies.

Nor deem th' irrevocable Past
As wholly wasted, wholly vain,
If, rising on its wrecks, at last
To something nobler we attain.

CHRISTMAS-DAY.

SAMUEL RICHARDS.

THOUGH rude winds usher thee, sweet day,
Though clouds thy face deform,
Though Nature's grace is swept away

Before thy sleety storm;

Even in thy sombrest wintry vest,

Of blessed days thou art most blest.

Nor frigid air nor gloomy morn
Shall check our jubilee :

Bright is the day when Christ was born,
No sun need shine but He:

Let roughest storms their coldest blow,
With love of Him our hearts shall glow.

Inspired with high and holy thought,
Fancy is on the wing:

It seems as to mine ear it brought

Those voices carolling,

Voices through Heaven and Earth that ran,— "Glory to God, good-will to man!"

66

I see the Shepherds gazing wild

At those fair Spirits of light;
I see them bending o'er the Child
With that untold delight

Which marks the face of those who view
Things but too happy to be true.

Oft as this joyous morn doth come
To speak our Saviour's love,
O, may it bear our spirits home
Where He now reigns above!

That day which brought Him from the skies
So man restores to Paradise.

Then let winds usher thee, sweet day,
Let clouds thy face deform:
Though Nature's grace is swept away

Before thy sleety storm,

Even in thy sombrest wintry vest,
Of blessed days thou art most blest.

WINIFREDA.

AWAY! let nought to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care;
Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.

What though no grants of royal donors

With pompous titles grace our blood; We'll shine in more substantial honours, And to be noble we'll be good.

Our name, while virtue thus we tender,
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke;
And all the great ones they shall wonder
How they respect such little folk.

What though from fortune's lavish bounty
No mighty treasures we possess ;
We'll find within our pittance plenty,
And be content without excess.

And still shall each returning season
Sufficient for our wishes give;

For we will live a life of reason,
And that's the only life to live.

Through youth and age in love excelling,
We'll hand in hand together tread;
Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed.
How I should love the pretty creatures,
While round my knees they fondly clung!
To see them look their mother's features,
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue.
And when with envy time transported

Shall think to rob us of our joys,
You'll in your girls again be courted,
And I'll go wooing in my boys.

THE BLACKSMITH'S STORY.

FRANK OLIVE.

WELL, No! My wife ain't dead, sir, but I've lost her all the

same;

She left me voluntarily, and neither was to blame.

It's rather a queer story, and I think
When you hear the circumstances

me.

She was a soldier's widow.

you will

agree

'twas rather rough on

He was kill'd at Malvern Hill; And when I married her she seem'd to sorrow for him still; But I brought her here to Kansas, and I never want to see A better wife than Mary was for five bright years to me.

The change of scene brought cheerfulness, and soon a rosy

glow

Of happiness warm'd Mary's cheeks and melted all their

snow.