MEMORIAL DAY. Tenderly strew over cach grave to-day, The perfumed blossoms of balmy May. And the nameless mounds" by stream or lake,

Bedeck them for mother's or sister's sake. What matters it now whether friend or foe, Lies mould'ring to dust in the tomb below. Spread sweet charity's mantle o'er the brave And cover with flowers each hero's grave. Known or unknown, Oh! how many to-day, Grieving, are wond'ring where their loved ones lay;

Weeping and wond'ring, they gladly would know,

If tribute to their's, some hand will bestow.

Time and its changes should soften the heart,
And sympathy lessen pale sorrow's dart,
And tears should refresh the green on each
grave;

Bright flowers shed their fragrance o'er the brave,

Think, some sad heart, that is far, far away;
In gratitude deep would gladly repay,
For the drop of a sigh, a bud or a tear,
On the grave unknown to some one so
dear.

Think Mercy's Angel will hasten away,
With message to friend, of the Blue or the

Gray.

How it would solace the sorrow of years,
And lessen the grief, that's hallowed with

tears.

A JUNE DAY DREAM.

This sweet June day
I drift away,

Where care cannot my peace betray;
From toil and heat,
And dust retreat,

Where fairer scenes my senses greet.

My footsteps seek
The highest peak,

O'er looking lake and crystal creek;
Like vine-clad wall,

Of castled hall,

Hill-sides abloom, arise and fall.

So clear and free

There comes to me,

Soft cadence of past melody;

As 'neath the trees,

I lie at ease,

And listen to the whispering breeze.
Each regal note,

From silver throat,

Of song-birds reach, near and remote; Their happy mood

Seek to intrude,

And lend joy to this solitude.

Not far away

The new mown hay,

Sends forth richest, royal bouquet;
And glim'ring sheen,
O'er velvet green,

Makes restful this enchanting scene.
While here and there
Sail cloud-ships fair,
Sailing, sail by on waves of air,
Until they greet

The anchored fleet,
Where azure skies and landscapes meet.
There vines o'er creep
Willows that weep,

On island rising from the deep;
On either hand

Its pearly sand,
Lies sparkling in the sunlight grand.

O! calm, sweet June,
Thou hast o'er strewn,

The earth with garland and festoon;
No discord here,
To mar the ear,

Intrudes with form, or creed, or fear.

This temple grand,
The Artist's hand,

Perfection shows, at his command;
Oh! who would miss
A day like this?

Sweet prelude of Elysian bliss.

Drink in, my soul,
The sweets that roll,
From heaven's free, o'erflowing bowl;
Oh! heart of mine,

At Nature's shrine,
Pay homage to the hand divine.

EXTRACT.

Again the days are growing long,
And the dew rests on the flowers,
Winged minstrels never tire of song,
So charm and cheer the passing hours;
Hours, that seem to me passing slow,
While a wakeful memory strays
To you, and scenes of long ago,
Recalling other summer days.

83

Paint with thy pencil the flowers fair, The royal fuchsias and roses rare,

Tis the halcyon month of May,
Hail, hail, all hail!

Tis nature's gala day,

Ye nymphs of the mountain,

Ye sprites of the fountain.

That dance 'mid the leaflets green:

Come out from your bowers,

With garlands of flowers,

And welcome your fairy queen.

Hail: fairy of spring!

Scatter thy flowers o'er hill and dale,
While the breezes o'er them blow,

And soft be thy touch in the woodland vale,
Where the leafy tendrils of myrtle trail,
And the sparkling fountains flow.
Hail: beautiful queen!

Deek with thy blossoms the branches bare,
And thy golden smiles bestow;

And the violets bending low.
Short is thy stay, O lovely queen,
For the summer is coming soon;
E'en now is the way of thy exit seen,
In the golden month of June.

But while thou art queen thy reign is sweet,
For thy sceptre is covered with flowers;
And before thy grotto the fairies meet,
And the elfins dance with glittering feet,

Beneath the jessamine bowers.

Then spring, bright spring we bid thee hail, But soon we will say good-bye;

For thy brightest beams e'er long will pale, When the violets droop in the woodland vale,

And withering, fade and die,

For the golden harvest-time will come,

And the reapers with sickles keen,

Will bring to the flowers their only doom,

And lay them low in their earthy tomb,

The mouldering sod between.

But after the winter snows are past,

And gone are the sleet and rain;
When the dreary days no longer last,
And bright spring comes again,
We will shout aloud as we did of yore,
All hail fair spring to thee;
Scatter thy flowers the woodlands o'er,
Till the air is sweeter than ever before,
As it blows through each leafy tree.

Cold are the winds of Annandale;

But never a cheek is blanched and pale,
That out of the house is wont to tarry,
And brave the wind of January.

January's bitter cold;

But sprightly youth will scarce grow old,
And pine away before its time,

If, committing the so-called crime

Of lingering out in the ice and snow,
We make the days of the winter go.

Oh! the hills of Annandale!
The snow-clad hills of Annandale;
Glittering white in the sun's bright rays,
That shimmer and dance like a troop of fays;
Placing a gem on each feathery flake,

Till they look like stars on a frozen lake,
Soon is heard on the frosty air,

The shout of the coaster-Oh! sport most

rare!

Little we heed how the buttons go,
Little we heed how the blinding snow
Flies in our eyes and fills our ears,

Till our bosom throbs with fleeting fears;
But flowing over with jubilant bliss,
We vow that nothing can equal this.

O ye, that sit in the halls of state,
That rule our country strong and great,
Give ye no thought to those halcyon days,
That ye spent in a thousand whimsical ways-
Ways that only youth may know,
To conjure joy and to banish woe?
Give ye no thought--alas too oft,
Your minds are soaring too far aloft,
To give one glance at childhood's day,
But are wont to sneer at its foolish play.
Know ye then, men with minds so great,
That stand at the helm of the ship of state,
Know ye that these same jubilant boys,
That rend the air with their mirthful noise,
And slide down hill with their nose to the
ground,

In the halls of the nation may yet be found.

Then hip, hurrah! for King Winter cold,
With his shaggy beard so gray and old,
Long may he sit on his icy throne,
And rule the realm he now doth own;
Glassing the river with sheets of ice,
Where by a throw of fortune's dice,

The youth and the maiden perchance do meet,

And fly o'er the ice with the wind so fleet,
The wind that causes a ruddy glow
On cheek and lip as they swiftly go.
O rudest wind! to be so bold,

As to kiss those lips with a touch so cold;
But perhaps there would be no fault to find,
If the only culprit were the wind.
Then hurrah! once more for the Winter King,
Who moans and whistles and tries to sing,
And plays a prelude queer and odd,

On the creaking limbs that sway and nod.
And then with a shriek he leaves the vale,
And mounts to the hills of Annandale,
There with a whirry add flurry he stops,
And dances a horn-pipe to limber his chops;
And if a stray cat by chance he spies,
He nips her tail till she blinks her eyes,
And rends the air with yowls and cries.

O Winter King what a royal sway,
Thou holdest ever from day to day.

But the time will come when thy throne will

melt,

And no longer thy chilling breath be felt; And thou wilt sleep in the vast unknown, While the golden summer reigns alone.

SECOND.

Oh! the groves of Annandale!

The balmy groves of Annandale;

Through whose trees with a whisper low,

The summer winds so wearily blow,
And fan our cheeks till we fall asleep,
While the hum-birds play at a wild bo-peep,
The bees croon drowsily in the clover,
The squirrel chirps like a rollicking rover;
And sweet to the soul beyond all price,
Nature foreshadows Paradise,
Hand in hand through the shady grove,
The youth and the maiden slowly move.
Her cheeks are red, but not with cold,

As when once they were kissed by the wind so

bold.

They set them down by a running stream,
And think they are living a fairy dream.
He scans her face with a loving eye,
Then looks to see if there's any one nigh,

But here let me say, when they flew apace
Over the ice, she slapped his face,
When he tried to follow the wind's example;
Of womanly spirit a worthy ample.-
But now when the summer breezes blow,
And the rippling streamlets freely low,
And the blue-bird warbles a love song sweet,
A languor steals o'er their mossy seat,
And there, in the light of a summer's sun,
A precious heart is wooed and won.
Oh! the summer of Annandale!
The golden summer of Annandale.
Happiest hours of all the year,
Happy indeed to the maiden dear,

Who laughed at love when the Winter King
Held his sway over everything.

Now, no more howls the chilling blast,
No more the snow falls thick and fast
Over the field and over the plain,
Till we look for a fence or a road in vain.
No more is heard the coaster's song,
As it swelled into melody loud and long.
The hills are green, and the flowers wave,
And lift their heads to the sky's blue nave;
And seem to whisper as they nod:
All that is loving belongs to God.

DECEMBER.

Child of the grand old winter,
December floateth by;

And the ground without is bare and white
As the moon in the cloudless sky.
The wind blows cold and dreary.
Across the whitened plain;

And we see the oaks with their branches barc,
Through the frost on the window pane.
But within where the yule-log's burning,
Each heart is happy and gay;

For the loving Prince of earth and Heaven,
Was born on Christmas day.

Then hail! grand old December,

We welcome you 25e9 more!

For the memory sweet of a night you bring, That came in the days of yore.

86

JESSIE F. O'DONNELL.

BORN: LOWVILLE, N. Y., JAN. 18, 1860. MISS O'DONNELL has published a volume of poems entitled Heart Lyrics, and now follows the profession of literature. Her poems have

appeared in a number of the leading American periodicals. In person she is very slight, and now resides in her native town.

THE NIGHT-BLOOMING CEREUS. The indolent four o'clock ladies

Had waked from their long, dreamy rest, But the sun-flower's golden-lashed blossoms Had turned their brown eyes to the west, And the lilies grown suddenly weary,

Lay hushed on the river's cold breast. The blue-bells began a soft tinkle,

The primroses opened their eyes; And the grasses waved low where the fairies Had stolen the violets' disguise;

And above, through the angels' vast gardens,
The stars blossomed out in the skies.

A voice from the lily-bells calling,
Rang out on the even air clear:
"O ye blossoms! awake, in the gardens!
The Lord of the flowers cometh near!
O awake! in the field and the woodland;
The Maker of blossoms is here!"
The poppy just murmured: ..I'm sleepy!"
And nodded her round drowsy head;
And the tulips had closed their bright shut-

[ters

44

Against the night dew-drops," they said;
And tho little green balls of the daisies
Never stirred in their soft, grassy bed.
But sweetly the tall, fragrant lily
Uplifted her chalice of light,

And the roses threw open their bosoms
And gladdened the fair summer night,
And the stars of the jasmine blossoms
Leaned down from the trellises' height.
The Lord, walking slow through the garden,
Smiled back at the roses' perfume,
Caressing the lily's pale petals,

Or shaking the hyacinth's perfume,
Till He came where the Cereus slumbered,
Close hiding her beautiful bloom.
She thrilled at the heavenly presence,
And slowly uncovered her face,
And swinging the pearl of her censer,
With reverent, ineffable grace,
Stood revealed in her magical beauty,
The soul of that wonderful place.
Spell-bound at the white growing vision,
The Lord watched the flower unfold,
Till away from the quivering stamens

The last snowy petal had rolled,

Then he bent o'er the weird, witching blos