But no; that look is not the last :

We yet may meet where seraphs dwell, Where love no more deplores the past,

Nor breathes that withering word-Farewell.

W. O. B. PEABODY.

The Early Lost.

WHEN the soft airs and quickening showers
Of spring-time make the meadows green,
And clothe the sunny hills with flowers,
And the cool hollows scooped between,
Ye go, and fondly bending where

The bloom is brighter than the day,
Ye pluck the loveliest blossom there
Of all that gem the rich array.
The stem, thus robbed and rudely pressed,
Stands desolate in the purple even;
The flower has withered on your breast,
But given its perfume up to heaven.

When, mid our hopes that waken fears,
And mid our joys that end in gloom,
The children of our earthly years

Around us spring, and bud, and bloom, An angel from the blest above

Comes down among them at their play, And takes the one that most we love, And bears it silently away: Bereft, we feel the spirit's strife;

But while the inmost soul is riven, Our dear and beauteous bud of life Receives immortal bloom in heaven.

W. D. GALLAGHER.

The Reaper and the Flowers.

THERE is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And with his sickle keen

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he,
"Have naught but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again.”

He gazed on the flowers with tearful eyes,

He kissed their drooping leaves:

It was for the Lord of Paradise

He bound them in his sheaves.

"My Lord hath need of these flowerets gay,"
The Reaper said, and smiled;
"Dear tokens of the earth are they,

Where he was once a child.

“They all shall bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care;

And saints upon their garments white
These sacred flowers wear."

And the mother gave, with tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;

But she knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.

Oh! not in cruelty, not in wrath
The Reaper came that day;

"Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.

LONGFELLOW.

The Sculptured Children on Chantrey's

Monument at Litchfield.

FAIR images of sleep!

Hallowed, and soft, and deep;
On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies,
Like moonlight on shut bells

Of flowers in mossy dells,

Filled with the hush of night and summer skies.

How many hearts have felt

Your silent beauty melt

Their strength to gushing tenderness away!
How many sudden tears,

From depths of buried years,

All freshly bursting, have confessed your sway!

How many eyes will shed

Still, o'er your marble bed,

Such drops, from Memory's troubled fountain wrung!

While Hope hath blights to bear,

While Love breathes mortal air,

While roses perish ere to glory sprung.

Yet, from a voiceless home,

If some sad mother come

To bend and linger o'er your lonely rest,