Each form may wear to the passing gaze
The bloom of life's freshness yet,
And beams may brighten our later days
Which the morning never met.

But oh, the changes we have seen

In the far and winding way;

The graves that have in our path grown green, And the locks that have grown gray!

The winters still on our own may spare

The sable or the gold:

But we saw their snows upon brighter hair-
And, friends, we are growing old!

We have gained the world's cold wisdom now,
We have learned to pause and fear;

But where are the living founts whose flow

Was a joy of heart to hear?

We have won the wealth of many a clime,

And the lore of many a page:

But where is the hope that saw in time
But its boundless heritage?

Will it come again when the violet wakes,
And the woods their youth renew?

We have stood in the light of sunny brakes
When the bloom was deep and blue;

And our souls might joy in the spring-time then,
But the joy was faint and cold;

For it never could give us the youth again

Of hearts that are growing old.

FRANCES BROWN.

WATCHING FOR DAWN.

Watching for Dawn.

S yestermorn my years have flown away; But for lost youth there come no new to-morrows: No lure compels the drowsy joys to stay—

A

No curtain quite shuts out the bat-winged sorrows.

O my sweet youth! Left I one fruit untasted,
One flower not plucked on any farthest bough ?—
Ashes for beauty, dust for fragrance, wasted:

All that was sweetest grows most bitter now.

Then plucked I bitter sweets, yet plucked again:
Fool! But, O man! was I alone in folly?
Each morn renews the opium-dreamer's pain-
Each sigh confirms the poet's melancholy.

Self-love is mad-grows madder with indulgence:
Angels may weep to see it strive and dare.
Ah! why was Heaven robbed of your effulgence,
Swift, Byron, Shelley, Heine, Baudelaire?

In this dark night of mortal wretchedness

What stars are fixed? I see but comets gleaming; Without, are sounds of strife and dull distress-Within, I watch a candle's fitful beaming.

Yet stars there are, like fires afar off burning—
Still, underneath the horizon, there is day :
Oh for more light to aid my slow discerning!

What can I do but watch, and weep, and pray?

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Look! in the east appear some gleams of morn-
A breath of sweetness floats upon the air;
Now, while within my spirit hope is born,

A still, small voice gives answer to my prayer.

"Put out the candle, for the sun has risen!
All other lights, above, below, grow dim;
Go, Soul! like Paul and Silas, from thy prison;
Christ hath redeemed thee—be complete in Him.”
ANONYMOUS

The Return of Youth.

Y friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime, For thy fair youthful years, too swift of flight; Thou musest with wet eyes upon the time

Μ'

Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light,— Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong,

And quick the thought that moved thy tongue to speak; And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek.

Thou lookest forward on the coming days,

Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep:
A path, thick-set with changes and decays,

Slopes downward to the place of common sleep;
And they who walked with thee in life's first stage,
Leave, one by one, thy side; and, waiting near,
Thou seest the sad companions of thy age,-
Dull love of rest, and weariness, and fear.

Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone,
Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die;
Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn,
Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky ;-
Waits like the morn, that folds her wing and hides

Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour;
Waits like the vanished Spring, that slumbering bides

Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower.

LABOR AND REST.

There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand
On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet
Than when at first he took thee by the hand,

Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet.
He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still,

Life's early glory to thine eyes again;
Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill
Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then.

Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here,

Of mountains where immortal morn prevails?
Comes there not through the silence, to thine ear,
A gentle rustling of the morning gales ?
A murmur, wafted from that glorious shore,
Of streams that water banks forever fair;
And voices of the loved ones gone before,
More musical in that celestial air?

So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot,—
God in his mercy answereth not.

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Two hands to work addressed

Aye for his praise;

Two feet that never rest,
Walking his ways;

Two eyes that look above,
Still through all tears;

Two lips that breathe but love,

Nevermore fears,

So pray we afterward low on our knees;—
Pardon those erring prayers!
Father, hear these!

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

God.

Whom have I in Heaven but Thee ?"

I

LOVE (and have some cause to love) the earth;
She is my Maker's creature, therefore good;
She is my mother, for she gave me birth;
She is my tender nurse; she gives me food;

But what's a creature, Lord, compared with thee?
And what's my mother or my nurse to me?

I love the air; her dainty sweets refresh

My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me;
Her shrill-mouthed choir sustain me with their flesh,
And with their polyphonian notes delight me:

But what's the air, or all the sweets that she
Can bless my soul withal, compared to thee?

I love the sea; she is my fellow-creature,

My careful purveyor: she provides me store; She walls me round; she makes my diet greater; She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore;

But, Lord of oceans, when compared with thee,
What is the ocean, or her wealth, to me?