OLD LETTERS.

My letters! written in my earnest boyhood
To one who left us but the other day,
And I am sitting here, and try to read them
Through tears I do not care to brush away.
Tears for my friend, and tears, ah ! much more
bitter,

For him, myself, the self that is as dead
As he to whom these faded things were written,
E'er youth and trust had from my living fled.

It was myself, remember that, who wrote them, Read them once more, and note the noble life,

The vast endeavor, and the desperate struggle To rise above the grovellers in the strife; The sacrifice of self for good of others;

The passion at the sufferings of the poor; The angry fight 'gainst pride, and sin, and riches;

The looking onward when the prize was sure. Ours too the hands to ease the overladen,

Ours the strong voices whose sweet words of truth

Should e'er compel a hearing from the people Who now but scoffed at our impetuous youth.

The world, awakened, soon would grow much better,

Soon sin and sorrow, dying in the dust, Would vanish from the earth before the sunlight

Flashed from our swords, whose blades should never rust.

Yet he is dead, and I am old and tired,
I do not care if all the world be sin;
I listen dully to my sons' loud vauntings

Of that bright future they are sure to win. Ah! burn the letters. As they fall to ashes Methinks they're like our fading mortal dreams,

Words upon words, and little of fulfilment Of all was promised by our youth's bright gleams!

All the Year Round.

FROM THE SICILIAN OF VICORTAI.
THE VIOLET'S GRAVE.

THE Woodland! And a golden wedge
Of sunshine slipping through!

And there, beside a bit of hedge,
A violet so blue !

So tender was its beauty, and

So douce and sweet its air,

I stooped, and yet withheld my hand,
Would pluck, and yet would spare.

Now which were best?-for spring will pass
And vernal beauty fly-

On maiden's breast or in the grass,
Where would you choose to die?