Yet, too, this thought with subtle comfort steals,
No secret now between the earth and sky!
All open unto heaven the spirit feels,

While gazing there with unobstructed eye.

A year ago within the poet's home

Unfelt the lateness of the life and year;

Around him warm remembrance gave its bloom, While his fresh thought retained its summer cheer.

In this dead birthday how revives the last!

Friends, gifts, and greetings, then he welcomed all ! Thinking how much his utterance in the past

With deepest faith this absence could forestall,

And count those present who had gone to God,
We offer in our heart the old-time word,
Nor lose the answer for the new-year's sod;
In some sweet verse of his it still is heard.

Charlotte Fiske Bates.

L

Saranac, the Lakes, N. Y.

THE LOWER SARANAC.

IGHTLY flies my fleet bark across the glittering

water,

Sweetly talk the ripples before the furrowing prow, Mellow streams the sunset within the skirting forest, Mellow melts the west-wind in kisses on my brow.

Oh, this life is glorious, this life within the wildwood! Far, oh, far away flee the troubles of our lot! Wide expands the bosom, a boyish heart is dancing, Dancing with the gladness o'erflowing every spot!

Dreamy like the past stands the distant blue Tahawhus ; Gleamy like the present old Moosehead rears his crest; Filmy like the future in front the bowery island;

Sparkling like our wishes the water's ripply breast. Look, a wandering snowflake, the white gull in the distance!

Indian pink on pinions, the redbird's darting glow! Upward leaps the trout, and afar the loon is floating, Dotting dark the sun-gleam, then flashing bright

below.

Turn the buoyant bark through the elm's cathedral archway!

Nestles cool the cove filled with babble of the brook, Sunny specks, and spice from the lily's pearly scallops;

So from glare of life hides some sweet domestic nook. Onward then again, for the sunset now has kindled

Higher his grand camp-fire, and shines our tent before! Crimson clouds are painting the purpled lake's enamel, Golden gauzes gleam in the glades along the shore.

Onward, onward, thus do we press upon our journey, Moved by restless longing, Heaven calling us away; Oh, may fading life be illumined like the sunset, Beaming brighter, brighter, till darkness veils the day! Alfred Billings Street.

THE UPPER SARANAC.

D forest lake, thy waters spread

WILD

A mirror for the welkin's bound!
Thy breezes glide with rippling tread;
Thy linking brooks send tinkling sound.

Down to thy wave the fish-hawk swoops;
The wood-duck floats within thy bays;
Its trunks the water-maple groups

Along thy banks of leafy maze.

The gull darts by, a flash of snow;

Deep from thy brink green pictures gleam; The loon shouts o'er, and shoots below; The soft haze folds thee in a dream.

The lily lifts its creamy cup

In thy broad shallows, amber clear; And there the thatch shoots bristling up, And there steals down the drinking deer.

On thy bright breast each fairy isle

Strews its rock-vase, with foliage brimmed; And from thee grandly, pile on pile, Soar the steep crags with thunders rimmed.

In thy smooth glades the camp-fire flames;
The hunter's light boat tracks thy wave;
Thy ooze in caves the muskrat frames;
The otter in thee loves to lave.

Wild forest lake! oh, would my home,
My happy home, were reared by thee!
Thence would my full heart never roam,
From care and trouble ever free.

Alfred Billings Street.

Saratoga, N. Y.

THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS.

TRANGERS! your eyes are on that valley fixed

STRAN

Intently, as we gaze on vacancy,

When the mind's wings o'erspread

The spirit-world of dreams.

True, 't is a scene of loveliness, — the bright
Green dwelling of the summer's first-born Hours,
Whose wakened leaf and bud

Are welcoming the morn.

And morn returns the welcome, sun and cloud

Smile on the green earth from their home in heaven, Even as a mother smiles

Above her cradled boy,

And wreathe their light and shade o'er plain and moun

tain,

O'er sleepless seas of grass whose waves are flowers, The river's golden shores,

The forests of dark pines.

The song of the wild bird is on the wind,
The hum of the wild bee, the music wild
Of waves upon the bank,

Of leaves upon the bough.

But all is song and beauty in the land, Beneath her skies of June; then journey on, A thousand scenes like this

Will greet you ere the eve.

Ye linger yet, ye see not, hear not now,
The sunny smile, the music of to-day,
Your thoughts are wandering up,
Far up the stream of time;

And boyhood's lore and fireside-listened tales
Are rushing on your memories, as ye breathe
That valley's storied name,

Field of the Grounded Arms.

Strangers no more, a kindred "pride of place," Pride in the gift of country and of name, Speaks in your eye and step, —

Ye tread your native land.

And your high thoughts are on her glory's day, The solemn sabbath of the week of battle, Whose tempests bowed to earth

Her foeman's banner here.

The forest leaves lay scattered cold and dead, Upon the withered grass that autumn morn,