GEORGE ARNOLD.

Along the drifted sand-hills where So, here upon the grass, I lie at ease,

The world's poor, routed leavings? To cheer thee, and to right thee if or will they,

Who fail'd under the heat of this Not with lost toil thou laborest

Support the fervors of the heavenly | Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st

THE TRUE MEASURE of life.

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breath;
In feelings, not in figures on the dial.

We should count time by heart-throbs when they beat
For God, for man, for duty. He most lives,
Who thinks most, feels noblest, acts the best.
Life is but a means unto an end-that end.
Beginning, mean, and end to all things, God.

And maid, whose cheek outblooms
the rose,

As bright the blazing fagot glows,
Who, bending to the friendly light
Plies her task with busy sleight;
Come, show thy tricks and sportive
graces,

Thus circled round with merry faces.

Backward coil'd, and crouching low,

With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, The housewife's spindle whirling round,

Or thread, or straw, that on the
ground

Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then onward stealing, fiercely spring
Upon the futile, faithless thing.
Now, wheeling round, with bootless
skill,

Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As oft beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till from thy centre, starting fair,
Thou sidelong rear'st, with rump in
air,

Erected stiff, and gait awry,

Like madam in her tantrums high:
Though ne'er a madam of them all,
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall
More varied trick and whim displays,
To catch the admiring stranger's

gaze.

But not alone by cottage fire
Do rustics rude thy feats admire;
The learned sage, whose thoughts
explore

The widest range of human lore,
Or, with unfetter'd fancy, fly
Through airy heights of poesy,
Pausing, smiles with alter'd air,
To see thee climb his elbow-chair,
Or, struggling on the mat below,
Hold warfare with his slipper'd toe.
The widow'd dame, or lonely maid,
Who in the still, but cheerless shade
Of home unsocial, spends her age,
And rarely turns a letter'd page;
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall
The rounded cork, or paper ball,

The ends of ravell'd skein to catch,
But lets thee have thy wayward wil,
Perplexing oft her sober skill..

MY LOVE IS ON HER WAY.

OH, welcome bat and owlet gray,
Thus winging low your airy way!
And welcome moth and drowsy fly
That to mine ear comes humming by!
And welcome shadows dim and deep,
And stars that through the pale sky
peep;

Oh welcome all! to me ye say
My woodland love is on her way.

Upon the soft wind floats her hair,
Her breath is on the dewy air;
Her steps are in the whisper'd sound,
That steals along the stilly ground.
Oh, dawn of day, in rosy bower,
What art thou to this witching hour?
Oh, noon of day, in sunshine bright,
What art thou to this fall of night?

Or lonely tower, from its brown mass of woods,

Give to the parting of a wintry sun One hasty glance in mockery of the night

Closing in darkness round it? (Gentle friend!

Chide not her mirth who was sad yesterday,

Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch | And may be so to-morrow.)