R

WOODLAND VOICES.

JOAMING 'mid the green savannas, autumn leaves so thickly falling,

I have listened breathlessly to the wood-bird sweetly calling;

I have looked upon the grave in the village churchyard nigh,

Where the silver moonlight streamed, and shadows fell mysteriously;

And the chiming tower-bells up among the ivy leaves, Answered to the night owl's screech underneath the old church eaves.

And the wail of rushing winds, through the lonely woodlands near,

Seemed like wild harp-music sighing o'er the waters swift and drear;

Waters dark, and forests dim-holy stars that go and

come

As the drifting storm-clouds sweep, whispering of a better home

Tell me, if my mother's spirit looketh down from heaven above?

If departed souls remember aught of earthly care and love?

Ye can speak in thousand voices-ye can speak in fancy's

tone

Mystic songs-and heartfelt lays as I wander forth alone;

And my answer, borne on air by the voiceless spirits nigh, Spirits of the tempests whirl, borne aloft on memory's

sigh

Still re-echoes one sad strain-still repeateth one low

moan

A requiem for the dead-a dirge o'er my lamented one.

C. A. M. W.

NOVEMBER.

HE autumn wind is moaning low the requiem of the year;

The days are growing short again, the fields forlorn and sere;

The sunny sky is waxing dim, and chill the hazy air; And tossing trees before the breeze are turning brown and bare.

All nature and her children now prepare for rougher days:

The squirrel makes his winter bed, and hazel hoara

purveys;

The sunny swallow spreads his wings to seek a brighter sky;

And boding owl, with nightly how1, says cloud and storm are nigh.

No more 'tis sweet to walk abroad among the evening

dews:

The flowers are fled from every path, with all their scents. and hues :

The joyous bird no more is heard, save where his slender

song

The robin drops, as meek he hops the withered leaves

among.

Those withered leaves, that slender song, a solemn truth convey,

In wisdom's ear they speak aloud of frailty and decay : They say, that man's apportioned year shall have its winter too;

Shall rise and shine, and then decline, as all around him do.

They tell him, all he has on earth, his brightest, dearest things,

His loves and friendships, joys and hopes, have all their falls and springs:

A wave upon a moonlit-sea, a leaf before the blast,

A summer flower, an April hour, that gleams and hurries past.

And be it so I know it well: myself, and all that's mine,

Must roll on with the rolling year, and ripen to decline.

I do not shun the solemn truth; to him it is not drear

Whose hopes can rise above the skies, and see a Saviour

near.

It only makes him feel with joy, this earth is not his

home;

It sends him on from present ills to brighter hours to

come:

It bids him take with thankful heart whate'er his God

may send,

Content to go through weal or woe to glory in the end.

Then murmur on, ye wintry winds; remind me of my doom:

Ye lengthened nights, still image forth the darkness of the tomb.

Eternal summer lights the heart where Jesus deigns to shine.

I mourn no loss, I shun no cross, so Thou, O Lord, art

mine!

H. F. LYTE.