And Summer's fruited gems,

And coral pendants shorn from Autumn's berried

stems.

Sit by me drifting on the sleepy waves, -
Or stretched by grass-grown graves,

Whose gray, high-shouldered stones,

Carved with old names Life's time-worn roll disowns, Lean, lichen-spotted, o'er the crumbled bones

Still slumbering where they lay

While the sad Pilgrim watched to scare the wolf away.

Spread o'er my couch thy visionary wing!

Still let me dream and sing,

Dream of that winding shore

Where scarlet cardinals bloom-for me no more,

The stream with heaven beneath its liquid floor,
And clustering nenuphars

Sprinkling its mirrored blue like golden-chaliced stars!

Come while their balms the linden-blossoms shed!-
Come while the rose is red,-

While blue-eyed Summer smiles

On the green ripples round yon sunken piles
Washed by the moon-wave warm from Indian isles,

And on the sultry air

The chestnuts spread their palms like holy men in

prayer!

O for thy burning lips to fire my brain

With thrills of wild, sweet pain!

On life's autumnal blast,

Like shrivelled leaves, youth's passion-flowers are cast, — Once loving thee, we love thee to the last!.

Behold thy new-decked shrine,

And hear once more the voice that breathed "Forever

thine!"

THE VOICELESS.

WE Count the broken lyres that rest

Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,

But o'er their silent sister's breast

The wild-flowers who will stoop to number?

A few can touch the magic string,

And noisy Fame is proud to win them;

Alas for those that never sing,

But die with all their music in them!

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone

Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,— Weep for the voiceless, who have known The cross without the crown of glory! Not where Leucadian breezes sweep

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, But where the glistening night-dews weep

On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.

O hearts that break and give no sign

Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his cordial wine

Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,

If singing breath or echoing chord
To every hidden pang were given,
What endless melodies were poured,
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven !

11*

THE CROOKED FOOTPATH.

Aн, here it is! the sliding rail

That marks the old remembered spot,

gap

The that struck our schoolboy trail,
The crooked path across the lot.

It left the road by school and church,
A pencilled shadow, nothing more,

That parted from the silver birch

And ended at the farm-house door.

No line or compass traced its plan;
With frequent bends to left or right,

In aimless, wayward curves it ran,
But always kept the door in sight.