the porter at the lodge, whose name is Watchful, perceiving that Christian made a halt as if he would go back, cried unto him, saying, "Is thy strength so small? Fear not the lions, for they are chained, and are placed there for trial of faith where it is, and for 5 discovery of those that had none. Keep in the midst of the path, and no hurt shall come unto thee."

Then I saw that he went on, trembling for fear of the lions, but taking good heed of the directions of the porter; he heard them roar, but they did him no 10 harm. Then he clapped his hands, and went on, till he came and stood before the gate where the porter was. Then said Christian to the porter, "Sir, what house is this, and may I lodge here to-night?" The porter answered, "This house was built by the Lord 15 of the hill, and he built it for the relief and security of pilgrims." The porter also asked whence he was, and whither he was going?

From "Pilgrim's Progress."

JOHN BUNYAN.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows 20 brown and sere.

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves

lie dead;

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's

tread;

25

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,

And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.

5 Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood

10

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?

Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.

The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain

15 Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long

ago,

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the sum20 mer glow;

But on the hills the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,

25 Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream

no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty

died,

The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my

side.

In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so

brief:

10

15

Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend 20

of ours,

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the

flowers.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Permission of D. Appleton & Co.

From Bryant's Poetical Works.