Chant round a sister's dark and narrow bed, The Falls of Niagara.-BRAINARD. THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to him, And notch His cent'ries in the eternal rocks. Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side! In his short life, to thy unceasing roar! At Musing Hour.-THOMAS WELLS. Ar musing hour of twilight gray, I love to walk the churchyard way: To me, congenial is the place And, as the lonely spot I pass I think, like them, how soon, alas ! Like them, I think, when I am gone, Yet, ah!-and let me lightly tread!- Her image 'tis-to memory dear- Evergreens.-PINKNEY. WHEN Summer's sunny hues adorn But when the tints of autumn have The landscape that cold shadow shows Thus thoughts that frown upon our mirth Will smile upon our sorrow, And many dark fears of to-day May be bright hopes to-morrow. The Flower Spirit.-ANONYMOUS. I AM the spirit that dwells in the flower; When silence and moonlight reign over each bower, I woo the bird with his melody glowing To leap in the sunshine, and warble its strain, There dwells no sorrow where I am abiding; And the winds, as they pass, when too hastily riding, And look for us hourly, and think of us long. Who of the dull earth that's moving around us, "Man gweth up the Ghost, and where is he?”— CHRISTIAN EXAMINER. I STAND among the dark-gray stones; Beneath me are the mouldering bones And here, perhaps, they mused like me, On every side, its victory, And saw how frail they were. Like me, they felt that sense is nought, That pleasure's bark, though richly fraught, Yet sense and passion held them slaves, Till they were wrecked upon their graves, Perhaps, like them, I, too, shall go, And yet I would not live in vain, Or render back to God again O God of mercy, make me know Nor let me idly spend it so, But make it fit for heaven! Woods in Winter.-LONGFELLOW. WHEN winter winds are piercing chill, And through the white-thorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the bill, That over-brows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes. On the gray maple's crusted bark Its tender shoots the hoar-frost nips; Where, twisted round the barren oak, Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Pour out the river's gradual tide, Shrilly the skater's iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side. Alas! how changed from the fair scene, But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods, within your crowd; Chill airs, and wintry winds, my ear I hear it in the opening year I listen, and it cheers me long. A Last Wish.-ANONYMOUS. WHEN breath and sense have left this clay, But kindly bear my bones away To some lone, green, and sunny spot; Where few shall be the feet that tread, With reckless haste, upon my grave; And gently, o'er my last, still bed, To whispering winds, the grass shall wave. The wild flowers, too, I loved so well, Shall blow, and breathe their sweetness there, And all around my grave shall tell, "She felt that nature's face was fair." And those that come because they loved The mouldering frame that lies below, Shall find their anguish half removed, While that sweet spot shall soothe their wo. The notes of happy birds alone Shall there disturb the silent air; And when the cheerful sun goes down, And if, when soft night breezes wake, |