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Sad sighs the wind, that from those ancient elms Shakes showers of leaves upon the withered

grass : The sere and yellow wreaths with eddying sweep Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillocked graves. But list that moan ! 'tis the poor blind man's dog, His guide for many a day, now come to mourn The master and the friend, conjunction rare ! A man he was indeed of gentle soul, Though bred to brave the deep; the lightning's

flash Had dimmed, not closed, his mild but sightless

eyes. He was a welcome guest through all his range; (It was not wide,) no dog would bay at him : Children would run to meet him on his way, And lead him to a sunny seat, and climb His knees, and wonder at his oft-told tales; Then would he teach the elfins how to plait The rushy cap and crown, or sedgy ship; And I have seen him lay his tremulous hand Upon their heads, while silent moved his lips. Peace to thy spirit ! that now looks on me Perhaps with greater pity than I felt To see thee wandering darkling on thy way. But let me quit this melancholy spot, And roam where nature gives a parting smile. As yet the blue-bells linger on the sod That copes the sheep-fold ring; and in the woods A second blow of many flowers appears; Flowers faintly tinged and breathing no perfume.

But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland

wreath That circles autumn's brow: the ruddy haws Now clothe the half-leaved thorn; the bramble

bends Beneath its jetty load; the hazel hangs With auburn branches, dipping in the stream That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow The leaf-strewn banks : oft, statue-like, I gaze In vacancy of thought upon that stream, And chase with dreaming eye the eddying foam : Or rowan's clustered branch, or harvest-sheaf Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood.

JAMES GRAHAME.

A Mother's Prayer in Fllness. VES, take them first, my Father! Let my doves

Fold their white wings in heaven, safe on

thy breast, Ere I am called away: I dare not leave Their young hearts here, their innocent, thought

less hearts ! Ah, how the shadowy train of future ills Comes sweeping down life's vista as I gaze!

My May! my careless, ardent-tempered MayMy frank and frolic child, in whose blue eyes Wild joy and passionate woe alternate rise ; Whose cheek the morning in her soul illumes ; Whose little, loving heart a word, a glance,

Can sway to grief or glee; who leaves her play,
And puts up her sweet mouth and dimpled arms
Each moment for a kiss, and softly asks,
With her clear, flute-like voice, “ Do you love

me ?"
Ah, let me stay! ah, let me still be by,
To answer her and meet her warm caress!
For I away, how oft in this rough world
That earnest question will be asked in vain!
How oft that eager, passionate, petted heart,
Will shrink abashed and chilled, to learn at length
The hateful, withering lesson of distrust!
Ah! let her nestle still upon this breast,
In which each shade that dims her darling face
Is felt and answered, as the lake reflects
The clouds that cross yon smiling heaven! and

thou,
My modest Ellen-tender, thoughtful, true;

Thy soul attuned to all sweet harmonies :
My pure, proud, noble Ellen! with thy gifts
Of genius, grace, and loveliness, half hidden
'Neath the soft veil of innate modesty,
How will the world's wild discord reach thy heart
To startle and appal! Thy generous scorn
Of all things base and mean-thy quick, keen

taste,
Dainty and delicate—thy instinctive fear
Of those unworthy of a soul so pure,
Thy rare, unchildlike dignity of mien,
All—they will all bring pain to thee, my child!
And oh, if even their grace and goodness meet
Cold looks and careless greetings, how will all

The latent evil yet undisciplined
In their young timid souls, forgiveness find ?
Forgiveness, and forbearance, and soft chidings,
Which I, their mother, learned of Love to give !
Ah, let me stay !-albeit my heart is weary,
Weary and worn, tired of its own sad beat,
That finds no echo in this busy world,
Which cannot pause to answer—tired alike
Of joy and sorrow, of the day and night :
Ah, take them first, my Father, and then me!
And for their sakes, for their sweet sakes, my

Father,
Let me find rest beside them, at thy feet.

FRANCIS S. Osgood.

A Virtuous Woman is a Crown of

Glory.
THOU askest what hath changed my heart,

And where hath fled my youthful folly ?
I tell thee, Tamar’s virtuous art

Hath made my spirit holy.
Her eye-as soft and blue as even,

When day and night are calmly meeting-
Beams on my heart like light from heaven,

And purifies its beating.
The accents fall from Tamar's lip,

Like dewdrops from the rose-leaf dripping,
When honey-bees all crowd to sip,

And cannot cease their sipping.

The shadowy blush that tints her cheek,

For ever coming, ever going,
May well the spotless fount bespeak

That sets the stream a-flowing.
Her song comes o'er my thrilling breast,

E’en like the harp-string's holiest measures, When dreams the soul of lands of rest

And everlasting pleasures.
Then ask not what hath changed my heart,

Or where hath fled my youthful folly!
I tell thee, Tamar's virtuous art
Hath made my spirit holy.

WILLIAM Knox.

A Life of Prayer is the Life of Heaven. To prayer, to prayer;—for the morning breaks,

And earth in her Maker's smile awakes. His light is on all below and above, The light of gladness, and life, and love. 0, then, on the breath of this early air, Send up the incense of grateful prayer. To prayer;—for the glorious sun is gone, And the gathering darkness of night comes on. Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows, To shade the couch where his children repose. Then kneel while the watching stars are bright, And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of

night.

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