FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

WHEN the hours of Day are number'd,
And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul that slumber'd,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight

Dance upon the parlour wall;

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;

The beloved ones, the true-hearted,
Come to visit me once more;

He, the

young and strong, who cherish'd Noble longings for the strife,

By the roadside fell and perish'd,
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.

AUGUST.

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes,
Like the stars, so still and saintlike,
Looking downward from the skies.

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

Oh, though oft depress'd and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!

AUGUST.

BY WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.

DUST on thy mantle! dust, Bright Summer, on thy livery of green! A tarnish, as of rust,

Dims thy late-brilliant sheen:

And thy young glories-leaf, and bud, and flowerChange cometh over them with every hour.

Thee hath the August sun

Look'd on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face;
And still and lazily run,

Scarce whispering in their pace,

The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent
A shout of gladness up, as on they went.

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64

AUGUST.

Flame-like, the long midday,

With not so much of sweet air as hath stirr'd
The down upon the spray,

Where rests the panting bird,

Dozing away the hot and tedious noon,
With fitful twitter, sadly out of tune.

And

Seeds in the sultry air,

gossamer web-work on the sleeping trees; E'en the tall pines, that rear

Their plumes to catch the breeze,

The slightest breeze from the unfreshening west,
Partake the general languor, and deep rest.

Happy, as man may be,

Stretch'd on his back, in homely bean-vine bower,
While the voluptuous bee

Robs each surrounding flower,

And prattling childhood clambers o'er his breast,
The husbandman enjoys his noonday rest.

Against the hazy sky

The thin and fleecy clouds, unmoving, rest.
Beneath them far, yet high

In the dim, distant west,

The vulture, scenting thence its carrion-fare,
Sails, slowly circling in the sunny air.

Soberly, in the shade,

Repose the patient cow, and toil-worn ox;
Or in the shoal stream wade,

Shelter'd by jutting rocks:

The fleecy flock, fly-scourged and restless, rush
Madly from fence to fence, from bush to bush,

AUGUST.

Tediously pass the hours,
And vegetation wilts, with blister'd root,
And droop the thirsting flowers,

Where the slant sunbeams shoot:

But of each tall, old tree, the lengthening line,
Slow-creeping eastward, marks the day's decline.

Faster, along the plain,

Moves now the shade, and on the meadow's edge:
The kine are forth again,

The bird flits in the hedge.

Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun.
Welcome, mild eve!-the sultry day is done.

Pleasantly comest thou,

Dew of the evening, to the crisp'd-up grass;
And the curl'd corn-blades bow,

As the light breezes pass,

That their parch'd lips may feel thee, and expand,
Thou sweet reviver of the fever'd land.

So, to the thirsting soul,

Cometh the dew of the Almighty's love;
And the scathed heart, made whole,

Turneth in joy above,

To where the spirit freely may expand,

And rove, untrammell'd, in that "better land." 6*

65

TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE.

BY JONES VERY.

BRIGHT image of the early years

When glow'd my cheek as red as thou,
And life's dark throng of cares and fears
Were swift-wing'd shadows o'er my sunny brow!
Thou blushest from the painter's page,
Robed in the mimic tints of art;
But Nature's hand in youth's green age
With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart.

The morning's blush, she made it thine,
The morn's sweet blush she gave it thee;
And in thy look, my Columbine!
Each fond-remember'd spot she bade me see.
I see the hill's far-gazing head,

Where gay thou noddest in the gale;
I hear light-bounding footsteps tread
The grassy path that winds along the vale.

I hear the voice of woodland song

Break from each bush and well-known tree,
And, on light pinions borne along,

Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee.
O'er the dark rock the dashing brook,
With look of anger, leaps again,

And, hastening to each flowery nook,
Its distant voice is heard far down the glen.

Fair child of art! thy charms decay,

Touch'd by the wither'd hand of Time; And hush'd the music of that day,

When

my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime;