OCTOBER.

Nature perhaps foresees that Spring
Will touch her teeming bosom,
And that a few brief months will bring
The bird, the bee, the blossom;
Ah! these forests do not know-
Or would less brightly wither-

The virgin that adorns them so

Will nevermore come hither!

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THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.

October.

I

WOULD not die in May;

When orchards drift with blooms of white, like billows on the deep,

And whispers from the lilac-bush across my senses sweep, That 'mind me of a girl I knew when life was always May, Who filled my nights with starry hopes that faded out by

day

When time is full of wedding-days, and nests of robins brim
Till overflows their wicker sides the old familiar hymn –
The window brightens like the eye, the cottage door swings

wide,

The boys come homeward, one by one, and bring a smiling

bride,

The fire-fly shows her signal light, the partridge beats his

drum,

And all the world gives promise of something sweet to come — Ah, who would die on such a day?

Ah, who would die in May?

I would not die in June;

When looking up with faces quaint the pansies grace the sod, And, looking down, the willows see their doubles in the

flood

When, blessing God, we breathe again the roses in the air, And lilies light the fields along with their immortal wear, As once they lit the Sermon of the Saviour on the Mount, And glorified the story they evermore recount

Through pastures blue the flocks of God go trooping one by

one,

And turn their golden fleeces round to dry them in the sun When calm as Galilee the grain is rippling in the wind, And nothing dying anywhere but something that has sinned Ah, who would die in life's own noon?

Ah, who would die in June?

But when October comes,

And poplars drift their leafage down in flakes of gold below,
And beeches burn like twilight fires that used to tell of snow,
And maples bursting into flame set all the hills afire,
And summer from her evergreens sees paradise draw nigher —
A thousand sunsets all at once distill like Hermon's dew,
And linger on the waiting woods and stain them through and

through,

As if all earth had blossomed out, one grand Corinthian flower,

To crown Time's graceful capital for just one gorgeous hour!
They strike their colors to the king of all the stately throng—
He comes in pomp, October! To him all times belong :
The frost is on his sandals, but the flush is on his cheeks,
September sheaves are in his arms, June voices when he
speaks -

The elms lit bravely like a torch within a Grecian hand.
See where they light the monarch on through all the splen-
did land!

The sun puts on a human look behind the hazy fold,
The mid-year moon of silver is struck anew in gold,

In honor of the very day that Moses saw of old;

For in the burning bush that blazed as quenchless as a sword, The old Lieutenant first beheld October and the Lord!

Ah, then, October let it be

I'll claim my dying day from thee!

BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR.

A HYMN.

MY

Peace.

Y soul, there is a country Afar beyond the stars, Where stands a wingèd sentry,

All skillful in the wars.

There, above noise and danger,

Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles,

And one born in a manger

Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious friend,

And (O my soul, awake!)
Did in pure love descend,
To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thither,
There grows the flower of peace,
The rose that cannot wither-

Thy fortress and thy ease. Leave then thy foolish ranges, For none can thee secure, But one who never changes, Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

A Hymn.

HERE brief is the sighing,

And brief is the crying,

For brief is the life!

The life there is endless,
The joy there is endless,
And ended the strife.

What joys are in heaven!
To whom are they given?

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Ah! whom? and to whom?
The stars to the earth-born,
"Best robes" to the sin-worm,
The crown for the doom.

O country the fairest !
Our country the dearest,
We press towards thee;
O Sion the golden!
Our eyes now are holden,
Thy light till we see;

Thy crystalline ocean,
Unvexed by commotion,
Thy fountain of life;
Thy deep peace unspoken,
Pure, sinless, unbroken,

Thy peace beyond strife;

Thy meek saints all glorious,
Thy martyrs victorious,
Who suffer no more;
Thy halls full of singing,
Thy hymns ever ringing
Along thy safe shore.

Like the lily for whiteness, Like the jewel for brightness, Thy vestments, O Bride! The Lamb ever with thee, The Bridegroom is with thee With thee to abide !

We know not, we know not,
All human words show not,
The joys we may reach :
The mansions preparing,
The joys for our sharing,

The welcome for each.

WHAT

's this vain world to me? Rest is not here;

False are the smiles I see,

The mirth I hear.

Where is youth's joyful glee?

Where all once dear to me?

Gone, as the shadows flee

Rest is not here.

Why did the morning shine
Blithely and fair?

Why did those tints so fine

Vanish in air?

Does not the vision say,

Faint, lingering heart, away,

Why in this desert stay

Dark land of care!

Where souls angelic soar,

Thither repair;

Let this vain world no more

Lull and ensnare.

That heaven I love so well

Still in my heart shall dwell;

All things around me tell

Rest is found there.

LADY NAIRNE.