of night,

Moved by a dream too heavenly

fair to last ·

A dream of boyhood's season of delight;

It flashed along the dim shapes of the past;

And, as I mused upon its strange appeal,

Thrilling me with emotions undefined,

Old memories, bursting from Time's icy seal,

Rushed, like sun-stricken fountains on my mind.

Scenes where my lot was cast in life's young day;

My favorite haunts, the shores, the ancient woods,

Where, with my schoolmates, I was wont to stray;

Green, sloping lawns, majestic soli. tudes

All rose to view, more beautiful than then;They faded, and I weptagain!

-a child

THE SPRING-TIME Will return.

THE birds are mute, the bloom is fled

Cold, cold, the north winds blow; And radiant summer lieth dead Beneath a shroud of snow. Sweet summer! well may we regret Thy brief, too brief sojourn;

A few white vapory bars the zenith fleck;

And lo! along the horizon, bold and high,

The purple hills of Cuba! Hail, all hail!

Isle of undying verdure, with thy sky

Of purest azure! Welcome, odorous gale!

O scene of life and joy! thou art arrayed

In hues of unimagined loveliness. Sing louder, brave old mariner! and aid

My swelling heart its rapture to express; [more For, from enchanted memory, never Shall fade this dawn sublime, this fair, resplendent shore.

PESCADERO PEBBLES.

WHERE slopes the beach to the setting sun,

On the Pescadero shore,
For ever and ever the restless surf
Rolls up with its sullen roar.

And grasping the pebbles in white hands,

And chafing them together,
And grinding them against the cliffs
In stormy and sunny weather,

It gives them never any rest;
All day, all night, the pain
Of their long agony sobs on,

Sinks, and then swells again.

And tourists come from every clime To search with eager care,

For those whose rest has been the least:

For such have grown most fair.

But yonder, round a point of rock,
In a quiet, sheltered cove,
Where storm ne'er breaks, and sea
ne'er comes,

The tourists never rove.

For they miss the beat of angry storms,

And the surf that drips in tears.

The hard turmoil of the pitiless sea
Turns the pebble to beauteous gem,
They who escape the agony
Miss also the diadem.

LIFE IN DEATH.

NEW being is from being ceased; No life is but by death; Something's expiring everywhere To give some other breath.

There's not a flower that glads the spring

But blooms upon the grave
Of its dead parent seed, in which
Its forms of beauty wave.

The oak, that like an ancient tower
Stands massive on the heath,
Looks out upon a living world.
But strikes its roots in death.

The cattle on a thousand hills Clip the sweet buds that grow

Quiet forevermore;

In dreams of everlasting peace

They sleep upon the shore.

But ugly, and rough, and jagged still, Are they left by the passing years;

Sleeping long years below.

To-day is but a structure built
Upon dead yesterday;

And Progress hews her temple-stones
From wrecks of old decay.