When thou, fair moon of harvest! hast

Thy radiant glory all unfurled, And sweetly smilest in the west,

Far down upon the silent world.

Dispel the clouds, majestic orb!

That round the dim horizon brood, And hush the winds that would disturb The deep, the awful solitude, That rests upon the slumbering flood, The dewy fields, and silent grove, When midnight hath thy zenith viewed, And felt the kindness of thy love.

Lo! scattered wide beneath thy throne,
The hope of millions richly spread,
That seems to court thy radiance down,
To rest upon its dewy bed:
Oh let thy cloudless glory shed

Its welcome brilliance from on high,

Till hope be realized-and fled

The omens of a frowning sky!

Shine on, fair orb of light! and smile
Till autumn months have passed away,

And Labour hath forgot the toil

He bore in summer's sultry ray;

And when the reapers end the day,
Tired with the burning heat of noon,
They'll come with spirits light and

gay,

And bless thee-lovely Harvest Moon! -W. MILLAR.

THE ROSE.

How fair is the rose! What a beautiful flower!
The glory of April and May;

But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
And they wither and die in a day.

Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flowers of the field:

When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost,
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!

So frail is the youth and the beauty of man,
Though they bloom and look gay like a rose;
But all our fond care to preserve them is vain,
Time kills them as fast as he goes.

Then I'll not be proud of my youth, or my beauty,
Since both of them wither and fade;

But gain a good name by well doing my duty:

This will scent like a rose when I'm dead. -ISAAC WATTS.

THE WEB-SPINNER.

BY MARY HOWITT.

WEB-SPINNER was a miser old,
Who came of low degree;

His body was large, his legs were thin,
And he kept bad company;
And his visage had the evil look
Of a black felon grim;

To all the country he was known,
But none spoke well of him.
His house was seven storeys high,
In a corner of the street;

It always had a dirty look,

When other homes were neat. Up in his garret dark he lived, And from the windows high Looked out in the dusky evening Upon the passers-by.

Most people thought he lived alone; many have averred

Yet

That dismal cries from out his house

Were often loudly heard;

And that none living left his gate,
Although a few went in,

For he seized the very beggar old,
And stripped him to the skin;
And though he prayed for mercy,
Yet mercy ne'er was shown-
The miser cut his body up,

And picked him bone from bone.

Thus people said, and all believed
The dismal story true;
As it was told to me, in truth,

I tell it so to you.
There was an ancient widow-
One Madgy de la Moth,
A stranger to the man, or she

Had ne'er gone there, in troth.
But she was poor, and wandered out

At nightfall in the street,

To beg from rich men's tables

Dry scraps of broken meat.

So she knocked at old Web-Spinner's door,

With a modest tap, and low,

And down stairs came he speedily,

Like an arrow from a bow.

“Walk in, walk in, mother!" said he,

“And shut the door behind;"

She thought for such a gentleman,
That he was wondrous kind;
But ere the midnight clock had tolled,
Like a tiger of the wood,

He had eaten the flesh from off her bones,
And drank of her heart's blood!

Now after this fell deed was done,
A little season's space,
The burly Baron of Bluebottle
Was riding from the chase:

The sport was dull, the day was hot,
The sun was sinking down,
When wearily the baron rode
Into the dusty town.

Says he, "I'll ask a lodging

At the first house I come to;
With that the gate of Web-Spinner
Came suddenly in view.

Loud was the knock the baron gave—
Down came the churl with glee;
Says Bluebottle, "Good sir, to-night
I ask your courtesy ;

I'm wearied with a long day's chase-
My friends are far behind."

"You may need them all," said Web-Spinner, "It runneth in my mind."