NOTHING LOST.

@HERE are last year's snows,
Where the summer's rose,-

Who is there who knows?

Or the glorious note
Of some singer's throat
Heard in years remote ?

Or the love they bore
Who, in days of yore,
Loved, but are no more?

Or the faiths men knew
When, before mind grew,
All strange things seemed true?

The snows are sweet spring rain,
The dead rose blooms again,
Young voices keep the strain.

The old affection mild
Still springs up undefiled

For love, and friend, and child.

The old faiths grown more wide,
Purer and glorified,

Are still our life-long guide.

Nothing that once has been,
Tho' ages roll between

And it be no more seen,

Can perish, for the Will
Which doth our being fulfil
Sustains and keeps it still.

LEWIS MORRIS.

IFE knows no dead so beautiful

As is the white cold-coffin'd past;
This I may love nor be betray'd:
The dead are faithful to the last.
I am not spouseless-I have wed
A memory-a life that's dead.

JOAQUIN MILLER.

CHANGED.

ROM the outskirts of the town,
Where of old the milestone stood,
Now a stranger, looking down,
I behold the shadowy crown

Of the dark and haunted wood.

Is it changed, or am I changed?
Ah, the oaks are fresh and green,
But the friends with whom I ranged
Through their thickets are estranged
By the years that intervene.

Bright as ever flows the sea,

Bright as ever shines the sun,

But, alas! they seem to me
Not the sun that used to be,

Not the tides that used to run.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

OIKE to the moan of buried rivers,

៦៥

Heard faintly as they roam,

While the wild rock around them shivers
Through sheets of sunless foam;

Beneath the life that weighs and presses,

With muffled undertone,

Throbs in the spirit's worn recesses,
The voice of years long flown.

If, in the tumult of existence,

It whisper soft and low,

Yea seem, scarce heard through depths of distance,

To melt away and go:

Yet oft, when stars more whitely glitter,

When moons are waning chill,

That tide unseen grows loud and bitter,
The caverned heart to fill.