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And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold,
Seemed to point to the girl below. And lo! she had changed: in a few short hours, Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers, That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung This way and that, as she, dancing, swung In the fulness of grace and womanly pride, That told me she soon was to be a bride; Yet then, when expecting her happiest day, In the same sweet voice I heard her say,
“ Passing away! passing away!”
While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade
Of thought, or care, stole softly over,
Looking down on a field of blossoming clover.
That marched so calmly round above her, Was a little dimmed, as when evening steals
Upon noon's hot face; — yet one couldn't but love her, For she looked like a mother, whose first babe lay Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day; And she seemed, in the same silver tone to say,
“Passing away! passing away!”
While yet I looked, what a change there came!
Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan; Stooping and staffed was her withered frame;
Yet just as busily swung she on.
And still there came that silver tone
“Passing away! passing away!"
That Silent Moon.
GEORGE W. DOANE.
Tuat silent moon, that silent moon,
Careering now through cloudless sky,
Have passed beneath her placid eye,
How oft has Guilt's unhallowed hand,
And Superstition's senseless rite,
Profaned her pure and holy light !
But dear to her, in summer eve,
By rippling wave, or tufted grove,
And heart meets heart in holy love,
Dispersed along the world's wide way,
When friends are far, and fond ones rove, low powerful she to wake the thought,
And start the tear for those we love, Who watch with us at night's pale noon, And gaze upon that silent moon!
How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn,
The magic of that moonlight sky, To bring again the vanished scenes
The happy eves — of days gone by ; Again to bring, 'mid bursting tears, T'he loved and lost of other years !
And oft she looks, that silent moon,
On lonely eyes that wake to weep In dungeon dark, or sacred cell,
On couch, whence pain has banished sleep : 0, softly beams her gentle eye On those who mourn, and those who die.
But beam on whomsoe'er she will,
And fall where'er her splendors may, There's pureness in her chastened light,
There's comfort in her tranquil ray: What power is hers to soothe the heart What power, the trembling tear to start!
The dewy morn let others love,
Or bask them in the noontide ray;
From dawning light to dying day:
The Midnight Mail.
HANNAH F. GOULD,
'Tis midnight - all is peace profound ! But lo! upon the murmuring ground, The lonely, swelling, hurrying sound
Of distant wheels is heard ! They come — they pause a moment — when, Their charge resigned, they start, and then Are gone, and all is hushed again,
As not a leaf had stirred.
Hast thou a parent far away?
Who shared thine infant glee?
A wide, tumultuous sea ?
If aught like these, then thou must feel
On every trembling thread
As line on line is read.
Perhaps thy treasure 's in the deep,
Upon his distant grave !
Thy parent's hoary head no more
Thy son from out the wave!
Thy prattler's tongue perhaps is stilled;
Her corner of the tomb:
In midnight's awful gloom !
And while, alternate o'er my soul
Till morn shall bring relief,
Though filled with joy or grief!
The Progress of Knowledge. S. G. GOODRICH.
CONTEMPLATE for a moment the progress of science with. in the last forty years. Geology has almost entirely grown up within the present century. All former ages had dozed in ignorance and indifference over its mighty revelations. The bones of the mastodon and the ichthyosaurus had been occasionally discovered, and some dreaming philosophers