And bind-for earth's dark ties are rivenOur spirits to the gates of heaven.

A NAME IN THE SAND.

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

And so, methought, 't will quickly 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 no track or trace,

And yet, with Him who counts the sands,
And holds the water 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 these fleeting moments caught,
For glory or for shame.

Sarab belen Wabitman.

1803-1878.

A STILL DAY IN AUTUMN.

I love to wander through the woodlands hoary,
In the soft gloom of an autumnal day,
When Summer gathers up her robes of glory,
And, like a dream of beauty, glides away.

How through each loved, familiar path she lingers, Serenely smiling through the golden mist, Tinting the wild grape with her dewy fingers, Till the cool emerald turns to amethyst;

Kindling the faint stars of the hazel, shining To light the gloom of Autumn's mouldering halls,

With hoary plumes the clematis entwining, Where, o'er the rock, her withered garland falls.

Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning Beneath soft clouds along the horizon rolled, Till the slant sunbeams, through their fringes raining,

Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold.

The moist winds breathe of crispèd leaves and flowers,

In the damp hollows of the woodland sown,

Mingling the freshness of autumnal showers
With spicy airs from cedarn alleys blown.

Beside the brook and on the umbered meadow, Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground, With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow, The gentian nods, in dewy slumbers bound.

Upon those soft, fringed lids the bee sits brooding, Like a fond lover loath to say farewell,

Or, with shut wings, through silken folds intruding,

Creeps near her heart his drowsy tale to tell.

The little birds upon the hillside lonely

Flit noiselessly along from spray to spray, Silent as a sweet, wandering thought, that only Shows its bright wings and softly glides away.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.
1803-1882.

THE SOUL'S PROPHECY.

All before us lies the way;

Give the past unto the wind;

All before us is the day,

Night and darkness are behind.

Eden with its angels bold,

Love and flowers and coolest sea,
Is less an ancient story told
Than a glowing prophecy.

In the spirit's perfect air,

In the passions tame and kind,
Innocence from selfish care,

The real Eden we shall find.

When the soul to sin hath died,
True and beautiful and sound,
Then all earth is sanctified,
Up springs paradise around.

From the spirit-land afar

All disturbing force shall flee;
Stir, nor toil, nor hope shall mar
Its immortal unity.

THE RHODORA.

On being asked, whence is the flower?

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why

This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,
Then beauty is its own excuse for being.
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose !

I never thought to ask, I never knew ;

But in my simple ignorance, suppose

The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

George Lunt.

1803-1885.

PILGRIM SONG.

Over the mountain wave, see where they come, Storm-cloud and wintry wind welcome them home;

Yet, where the sounding gale howls to the sea, There their song peals along, deep-toned and free: "Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come ; Where the free dare to be,-this is our home!"

England hath sunny dales, dearly they bloom;
Scotia hath heather-hills, sweet their perfume;
Yet through the wilderness cheerful we stray,
Native land, native land, home far away!
"Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we come;
Where the free dare to be,—this is our home!

"