FAINTLY flow, thou falling river,
Like a dream that dies away;
Down to ocean gliding ever,

Keep thy calm unruffled way:
Time with such a silent motion,
Floats along, on wings of air.
To eternity's dark ocean,
Burying all its treasures there.

Roses bloom, and then they wither;
Cheeks are bright, then fade and die:
Shapes of light are wafted hither—
Then, like visions, hurry by:
Quick as clouds at evening driven
O'er the many-coloured west,

Years are bearing us to heaven,
Home of happiness and rest.

JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

VI. THE RAINY DAY.

"MAN's strength is in his war with obstacles."-Bulwer.

THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
'Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

LONGFELLOW.

TO THE SUN DIAL.

VII. TO THE SUN DIAL.

271

"AN Italian philosopher expressed in his motto, that TIME WAS HIS ESTATE; an estate, indeed, which will produce nothing without cultivation, but will always abundantly repay the labours of industry, and satisfy the most extensive desires, if no part of it be suffered to lie waste by negligence, to be overrun with noxious plants, or laid out for show rather than for use."-Johnson.

My ear is pained, my heart is sick,
When all beside is silent round,
To hear the clock's unvaried click
Repeat its melancholy sound.

"Tis irksome in the dead of night

To have Time's progress thus made know
And his irrevocable flight

Proclaimed in such a sullen tone.

To know that thus in darkness fly
Boons far beyond the gift of kings;
That moments-hours-are gliding by,
Which bear no record on their wings.-

Nothing to show their lapse redeemed
From dull Oblivion's barren void;
But idle, useless, unesteemed,

Have found and left us unemployed.

Better I love-since time must pass-
To witness in the light of day
The noiseless sand-grains in the glass
By slow succession drop away.

With still more joy to thee I turn,
Meet horologe for bard to love,

Time's sweetest flight from thee I learn,

Whose lore is borrowed from above.

The worldly use of time may need

Less cumbrous things its course to tell,-
I love thy massive tome to read,

To read-and-feel its voiceless spell.
I love in some sequestered nook
Of antique garden to behold
The page of thy sun-lighted book
Its touching homily unfold.

On some old terrace-walk to greet
Thy form, a sight which never cloys,
Is more to thought than drink and meat-
To feeling than Art's costliest toys.

These seem to track the path of time
By vulgar means which man has given;

Thou simple, silent, and sublime,

But show'st thy shadowy sign from Heaven.
BERNARD BARTON.

VIII. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

"In general, night is a very advantageous time for those who love to meditate, and to use self-examination. The tumult and dissipation, in which we commonly live during the day, leave us but too little time for recollection, for detaching our affections from the earth, and for occupying ourselves seriously about our latter end, and the duties of our station. The tranquillity of the night invites us to, and assists us in, these serious occupations. We may then, without interruption, converse with our hearts, and acquire the important science of selfknowledge. Our souls may collect all their powers, and direct them to the objects which relate to our eternal happiness. We may then banish the evil impressions which are received from the world, and get our souls fortified against the seducing examples of the age. This is the time in which we may meditate on death without distraction, and employ ourselves in the great concerns of the eternal world. The tranquil solitude of our closets is favourable to religious thoughts, and will inspire us with an ardent desire, to be more and more occupied in this sacred work."-Sturm.

WHEN the hours of day are numbered,
And the voices of the night

Wake the better soul,' that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful fire-light
Dance upon the parlour wall;

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the road-side fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the being beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies

Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!

273

IX. A NAME IN THE SAND.

"MAN that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down: he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not. As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more.' Psalm ciii. 15, 16.

ALONE I walked the ocean strand;
A pearly shell was in my hand :
I stooped and wrote upon the sand
My name--the year-the day.
As onward from the spot I passed,
One lingering look behind I cast;
A wave came rolling high and fast,
And washed my lines away.

And so, methought, 'twill shortly be
With every mark on earth from me;
A wave of dark oblivion's sea

Will sweep across the place,
Where I have trod the sandy shore
Of time, and been to be no more,
Of me-my day-the name I bore,
To leave nor track, nor trace.

And yet, with Him who counts the sands
And holds the waters in his hands,
I know a lasting record stands,
Inscribed against my name,

Of all this mortal part has wrought;
Of all this thinking soul has thought;
And from their fleeting moments caught
For glory or for shame.

HANNAH F. GOULD,

X. THE LAST MINSTREL.

"SUFFICIENTLY provided for within, they (poets in the olden time) had need of little from without; the gift of imparting lofty emotions, and glorious images to men, in melodies and words that charmed the ear, and fixed themselves inseparably on whatever they might touch, of old enraptured the world, and served the gifted as a rich inheritance. At the courts of kings, at the tables of the great, under the windows of the fair, the sound of them was heard, while the ear and the soul were shut for all beside; and men felt, as we do when