HANNAH FLAGG GOULD. THE SOUL'S FAREWELL. IT must be so, poor, fading, mortal thing! I go to stand unshrouded and alone, Full in the light of God's all-search ing eye. There must the deeds which we to gether wrought, Be all remembered - each a wit. ness made; And now we part, thou pallid form of clay! Thy hold is broken- I unfurl my wing; And from the dust the spirit must! The away! As thou at night, hast thrown thy vesture by, Tired with the day, to seek thy wonted rest, Fatigued with time's vain round, 't is thus that I outward action and the secret thought Before the silent soul must there be weighed. Lo! I behold the seraph throng descend To waft me up where love and mercy dwell; Of thee, frail covering, myself di- Away, vain fears! the Judge will be vest. my friend; It is my Father calls-pale clay. farewell! A NAME IN THE SAND. ALONE I walked the ocean strand; My name-the year—the day. And washed my lines away. With every mark on earth from me: A wave of dark oblivion's sea Will sweep across the place And yet, with Him who counts the And holds the waters in his hands, Inscribed against my name, For glory or for shame. JAMES GRAHAME. [From The Sabbath.] SABBATH MORNING. How still the morning of the hallowed day! Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, That yester-morn bloomed waving in the breeze. Sounds the most faint attract the ear, the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating midway up the hill. Calmness seems throned on yon unmoving cloud. To him who wanders o'er the upland leas, The blackbird's note comes mellower With those he loves he shares the ELINOR GRAY. ISOLATION. WE walk alone through all life's va- | We cannot reach them, and in vain rious ways, Through light and darkness, sorrow, joy, and change; And greeting each to each, through passing days, Still we are strange. We hold our dear ones with a firm, strong grasp; We hear their voices, look into their eyes; And yet, betwixt us in that clinging clasp A distance lies. We cannot know their hearts, howe'er we may Mingle thought, aspiration, hope and prayer; THOMAS GRAY. ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-| Save that from yonder ivy-mantled YARD. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learned to stray;. Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. One morn I missed him on the 'cus |