We may find it in the winter boughs, as they cross the cold blue sky:

While soft on icy pool and stream their pencill'd shadows lie,

When we look upon their tracery, by the fairy frost-work bound,

Whence the flitting redbreast shakes a shower of crystals to the ground.

Yes! beauty dwells in all our paths; but sorrow, too, is there:

How oft some cloud within us dims the bright, still summer air!

When we carry our sick hearts abroad amidst the joyous things,

That through the leafy places glance on manycolour'd wings!

With shadows from the past we fill the happy woodland shades,

And a mournful memory of the dead is with us in the glades;

And our dream-like fancies lend the wind an echo's plaintive tone

Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laughter gone.

But are we free to do ev'n thus-to wander as we

Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o'er the breezy hill?

No! in our daily paths lie cares, that ofttimes bind us fast,

While from their narrow round we see the golden day fleet past.

They hold us from the woodlark's haunts, and violet dingle's back,

And from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the shining river's track;

They bar us from our heritage of spring-time, hope, and mirth,

And weigh our burden'd spirits down with the cumbering dust of earth.

Yet should this be? Too much, too soon, despondingly we yield.

A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the field:

A sweeter by the birds of heaven, which tell us in their flight,

Of One that through the desert air for ever guides them right.

Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid vain conflicts cease?

Ay, when they commune with themselves in holy hours of peace;

And feel that by the lights and clouds through which our pathway lies,

By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training for the skies!

MRS. HEMANS.

AUTUMN.

THOU gentlest teacher of unwelcome truths,
Pale, pensive Autumn; thee once more I hail!
The changing foliage of the forest trees,

The litter'd garden strew'd with wither'd leaves,
Thy little laureate's tributary lay,

Half sad, half cheerful, and this breathless calm,

All speak thy monitory reign begun ;
And dearly do I love thy warning tones,
Thy gentle gravity, thy chasten'd smile.
Spring comes the harbinger of glorious things,
But oft from very waywardness of mood,
She mars her message in the telling o't.
To Winter harsher tidings are assign'd,
And in such savage sort he thunders forth
His thrilling tale of change, and blight, and death;
We turn away abhorrent from the theme.
Thine, too, meek Autumn, is no mirthful task,
For thou com'st charg'd with sad moralities;
But oh whilst faithful to thy sacred trust,
So gently deal'st thou with the human heart,
We almost love thy tidings for thy sake.
When Hope and Fancy spread before our gaze
A long perspective of unclouded years,

Till, through false optics view'd, the future seems
As certain and far brighter than the past;
Thou, half reluctant, drop'st upon our path
A sered leaf, mayhap, or wither'd flower,
And leavest us, when time and leisure serve,
The symbol to interpret and apply.

MRS. W. HEY.

"AS THY DAYS, SO SHALL THY STRENGTH BE."

WHEN adverse winds and waves arise,
And in my heart despondence sighs;

1 Deuteronomy, xxxiii. 25. "God will wisely proportion the graces and comforts" of his servants "for the services he calls them out to. Have they work appointed to them? They shall have strength to do it. Have they burdens appointed them? They shall have strength to bear them; and never be tempted above that they are able. Faithful is he that has thus promised, and hath caused us to hope in this promise."MATTHEW HENRY.

When life her throng of care reveals,
And weakness o'er my spirit steals;
Grateful I hear the kind decree,

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That, as my day, my strength shall be."

When with sad footstep memory roves
'Mid smitten joys and buried loves;
When sleep my tearful pillow flies,
And dewy morning drinks my sighs;
Still to thy promise, Lord, I flee,
That, "as my day, my strength shall be."

One trial more must yet be past,
One pang, the keenest, and the last;
And when, with brow convuls'd and pale,
My feeble, quiv'ring heart-strings fail,
Redeemer, grant my soul to see

That, "as her day, her strength shall be."

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

WORMS AND FLOWERS.

YOU'RE spinning for my lady, worm!
Silk garments for the fair;
You're spinning rainbows for a form
More beautiful than air,

When air is bright with sunbeams,
And morning mists arise

From woody vales and mountain streams
To blue autumnal skies.

You're spinning for my lady, flower!

You're training for my love,

The glory of her summer-bower,

While skylarks soar above:

Go, twine her locks with rose-buds,
Or breathe upon her breast,
While zephrys curl the water-floods,
And rock the halcyon's nest.

But, oh! there is another worm
Ere long will visit her,
And revel on her lovely form,
In the dark sepulchre :

Yet from that sepulchre shall spring
A flower as sweet as this;
Hard by the nightingale shall sing,
Soft winds its petals kiss.

Frail emblems of frail beauty ye!
In beauty who would trust?
Since all that charms the eye must be
Consign'd to worms and dust:
Yet, like the flower that decks her tomb,
Her spirit shall quit the sod,

To shine in amaranthine bloom,

Fast by the throne of God.

J. MONTGOMERY.

THE GENIUS OF DEATH.

WHAT is death?'Tis to be free!
No more to love, or hope, or fear -
To join the great equality;
All alike are humble there!
The mighty grave

Wraps lord and slave;

Nor pride nor poverty dares come
Within that refuge-house, the tomb.