HE waters are rising and flowing

Over the weedy stone

Over it, over it going;

It is never gone.

Over it joys go sweeping,

'Tis there the ancient pain:

Yea, drowned in waves and waves of weeping,

It will rise again.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

LIFE, O death, O world, O time,
O grave, where all things flow,
'Tis yours to make our lot sublime
With your great weight of woe.

Though sharpest anguish hearts may wring,
Though bosoms torn may be,

Yet suffering is a holy thing;

Without it what were we?

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.

OASIS.

PET them go by the heats, the doubts, the

strife;

I can sit here and care not for them now,

Dreaming beside the glimmering wave of life

Once more,-I know not how.

There is a murmur in my heart, I hear
Faint, O so faint, some air I used to sing;

It stirs my sense; and odours dim and dear
The meadow-breezes bring.

Just this way did the quiet twilights fade
Over the fields and happy homes of men,

While one bird sang as now, piercing the shade,
Long since,-I know not when.

EDWARD DOWDEN.

THE EPICUREAN.

OW gently, beautiful, and calm,
The quiet river murmurs by ;
How soft the light, how full of balm,
The breeze that soothes the dark'ning sky!

In every clime, in every state,

We may be happy if we will;

Man wrestles against iron fate,

And then complains of pain and ill.

The flowers, the beasts, the very heaven,
Calmly their destined paths pursue;

All take the pleasures that are given,
We only find them short and few.

Oh that mankind, alive to truth,

Would cease a hopeless war to wage; Would reap in youth the joys of youth,In age the peacefulness of age!

Upon an everlasting tide

Into the silent seas we go;
But verdure laughs along the side,
And roses on the margin blow.

Nor life, nor death, nor aught they hold,
Rate thou above their natural height;
Yet learn that all our eyes behold,

Has value, if we mete it right.

Pluck then the flowers that line the stream,
Instead of fighting with its power;

But pluck as flowers, not gems, nor deem
That they will bloom beyond their hour.

Whate'er betides, from day to day,
An even pulse and spirit keep;
And, like a child, worn out with play,
When wearied with existence, sleep.

SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.