WILLIAM WETMORE STORY. THE VIOLET. The young moon's silver arc, her per fect circle tells, O FAINT, delicious, spring-time vio- The limitless, within Art's bounded let, Thine odor, like a key, outline dwells. Turns noiselessly in memory's wards Of every noble work, the silent part to let A thought of sorrow free. WETMORE COTTAGE, NAHANT. THE hours on the old piazza That overhangs the sea, With a tender and pensive music A spring goes singing through its And again, o'er the balcony lean reedy grass; The lark sings o'er my head, ing, We list to the surf on the beach, Drowned in the sky.-Oh, pass, ye That fills with its solemn warning visions, pass! I would that I were dead! The intervals of speech. Why hast thou opened that forbidden We three sit at night in the moon door light, As we sat in the summer gone, And we talk of art and nature And sing as we sit alone; We sing the old songs of Sorrento, Where oranges hang o'er the sea, And our hearts are tender with dreaming Of days that no more shall be. How gaily the hours went with us In those old days that are gone! Ah! would we were all together. Where now I am standing alone. Could life be again so perfect? Ah, never! these years so drain The heart of its freshness of feel ing, But I long, though the longing be vain. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. LIFE'S MYSTERY. LIFE's mystery, - deep, restless as the ocean, Hath surged and wailed for ages to and fro; Earth's generations watch its ceaseless motion As in and out its hollow moanings flow; Shivering and yearning by that unknown sea, Let my soul calm itself, O Christ, in thee! THE OTHER WORLD. Ir lies around us like a cloud. A world we do not see; Its gentle breezes fan our cheek; And mingle with our prayers. Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, Sweet helping hands are stirred, And palpitates the veil between With breathings almost heard. The silence, awful, sweet, and calm, They have no power to break; For mortal words are not for them To utter or partake. So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide, So near to press they seem,— They seem to lull us to our rest, And melt into our dream. And in the hush of rest they bring. THE fresh May morning's earliest | 'Twas in June's bright and glowing light, From where the richest hues were blended, Lit on Cape Diamond's towering height Whose spangled crystals glittered bright, Thence to the castle roof descended, And bathed in radiance pure and deep [steep. The spires and dwellings of the Still downward crept the strengthening rays; The lofty crowded roofs below And Cataraqui caught the glow, Till the whole scene was in a blaze. The scattered bastions,- walls of stone With bristling lines of cannon crowned, Whose muzzles o'er the landscape frowned Blackly through their embrasures -shone. Point Levi's woods sent many a wreath Of mist, as though hearths smoked beneath, Whilst heavy folds of vapor gray The banks of Orleans' Isle displayed. prime The loveliest of the summer time. The laurels were one splendid sheet Of crowded blossom everywhere; The locust's clustered pearl was [air sweet, And the tall whitewood made the Delicious with the fragrance shed From the gold flowers all o'er it spread. In the rich pomp of dying day Quebec, the rock-throned monarch, glowed, Castle and spire and dwelling gray The batteries rude that niched their way Along the cliff, beneath the play Against the burnished sky, appeared West of Quebec's embankments rose The forests in their wild repose. Between the trunks, the radiance slim Here came with slant and quiver ing blaze; Thy mirror to the sunset sky! No ripple brushed its delicate air, Rich silken tints alone were there; The far opposing shore displayed, Mingling its hues, a tender shade; A sail scarce seeming to the sight To move, spread there its pinion white, Like some pure spirit stealing on Its gentle peace within him steal, Before His radiance, beauty still Each feeling of my soul refined, |