12

The Reaper and the Flowers.

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

And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear."

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

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

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;

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

LONGFELLOW.

R

AUTUMN LEAVES.

OOR autumn leaf! down floating

Upon the blustering gale;

Torn from thy bough,

Where goest now,

Withered, and shrunk, and pale?

"I go, thou sad inquirer,

As list the winds to blow,

Sear, sapless, lost

And tempest-tost,

I go where all things go.

"The rude winds bear me onwards

As suiteth them, not me,

O'er dale, o'er hill,

Through good, through ill,

As destiny bears thee.

"What though for me one summer,
And threescore for thy breath-
I live my span,

Thou thine, poor man!

And then adown to death.

"And thus we go together;

For lofty as thy lot,

And lowly mine,

My fate is thine,

To die and be forgot!"

CHARLES MACKAY.

AN INVITATION TO THE YOUNG.

COME, while the blossoms of thy years are brightest!
Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery maze,
Come, while the restless heart is bounding lightest,
And joy's pure sunbeams tremble in thy ways!
Come, while sweet thoughts, like summer buds unfolding,
Waken rich feelings in the careless breast!

While yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath is holding,
Come, and secure interminable rest!

The Evergreen.

15

IMMORTALITY.

THE Voice of nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies ;
That on this frail, uncertain state
Hang matters of eternal weight;
That future life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone;
Whether, as heavenly glory bright—
Or dark, as misery's woeful night.
Since then, my honour'd, first of friends,
On this poor being all depends,

Let us th' important now employ,

And live as those who never die.

BURNS.

HEATH.

How oft, though grass and moss are seen
Tann'd bright for want of showers,
Still keeps the ling its darksome green,
Thick set with little flowers.

DIRGE

WEET be thy slumbers, child of woe!

At the yew-tree's foot, by the fountain's flow!— May the firstling primrose blow,

Pallid snow-drop bloom; And the blue-eyed violet grow, By thy lonely tomb!

Duly there, at close of day,

Let woman's tears bedew the clay!
There let wren and ruddock stray,

And dark ivy creep,

Mixed with fern and mosses grey,
O'er thy last sleep!

C. D. M.