SUMMER EVE. It is the hour when all things rest : The sun sits in the bannered west, And looks along the golden street That leads o'er ocean to his feet.

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, myseif, the self that is as dead As he to whom these faded things were written,

E’er youth and trust bad from my living fed.

Sea-birds with summer on their wing
Down the wide west are journeying,
And one white star sereneiy high
Peeps through the purple of the sky.
O sky, and sea, and shore, and air,
How tranquil are ye now, and fair!
But twice the joy ye are were ye,
If one that's dead companioned me.

A DEDICATION. LIKE spray blown lightly from the crested

wave

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

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

light Flashed from our swords, whose blades

should never rust.

To glitter in the sun, So from my heart love gave

These airy fancies to the eyes of a be.

loved one.

But who shall guess
From the blown foam that in the sunbeam

shines
What secret stores there be
Of unsunn'd sea ?

Ah! how much less
The depths of what I feel from these poor

broken lines
I dedicate to thee !

grow much

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 sulfilment Of all was promised by our youth's bright gleams!

All the Year Round.

FELIX, FELIX TER QUATERQUE ! SHOUT and sing, ye merry voices

Of the mountain forest free ! What, but late, were jarring noises

Now as music are to me! Earth in bridal bloom rejoices,

Heaven benignly bends to.see ! He, beloved of her his choice is,

Blest of all the boys is he ! Blest of all the world of boys is

He that's telling this to thee! Shout and sing, ye merry voices !

Fill the forest with your glee !

FROM THE SICILIAN OF VICORTAI.

THE VIOLET'S GRAVE.
Tue woodland! And a golden wedge

Of sunshine slipping through!
And there, beside a bit of hedge,

A violet so blue !

REFLECTED HEAVEN. The mountain-tops above the mist

Like summer islands lie : Now we together both were blest If thither we could fly.

And you, while at

Your feet I sat,
Would gaze into the skies;

But I would be

Content to see
Their glory in your eyes.

SUMMER IN WINTER. Winter is it? Summer splendor

Never was so fair to see ! All because a maiden tender

Gave to-day her heart to me. Heaven a happy lifetime lend her,

Long, and from all evil free ; For the graces that commend her

Make her life the life of me.

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?