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Alas! thou foolish one,-alike unfit
For healthy joy and salutary pain,
Thou knowest the chase useless, and again
Turnest to follow it.

MEETING AGAIN.

By OWEN MEREDITH.

YES; I remember the white rose. And since then the young ivy has grown;

From your window we could not reach it, and now it is over the stone.

We did not part as we meet, dear. Well, Time hath its own stern cures !

And Alice's eyes are deeper, and her hair has grown like

yours.

Is our greeting all so strange then? But there's something here amiss,

When it is not well to speak kindly. And the olives are ripe by this.

I had not thought you so alter'd. But all is changed, God knows!

Good-night. It is night so soon now. Look there! you have dropp'd your rose.

Nay, I have one that is wither'd and dearer to me, I came To say good-night, little Alice. She does not remember my name.

It is but the damp that is making my head and my heart ache so.

I never was strong in the old time, as the others were, you

know.

And you'll sleep well, will you not, darling? The old words sound so dear!

'Tis the last time I shall use them; you need show neither anger nor fear.

It is well that you look so cheerful. And is time to smooth with you?

How foolish I am! Good-night, dear. And bid Alice goodnight too.

THE VOICE OF DEPARTED FRIENDSHIP.

By Professor WILSON.

I HAD a friend who died in early youth!
And often in those melancholy dreams,

When my soul travels through the umbrage deep
That shades the silent world of memory,

Methinks I hear his voice! sweet as the breath Of balmy ground-flowers, stealing from some spot Of sunshine sacred, in a gloomy wood,

To everlasting spring.

In the churchyard

Where now he sleeps--the day before he died,
Silent we sat together on a grave;

Till gently laying his pale hand on mine,
Pale in the moonlight that was coldly sleeping
On heaving sod and marble monument,-
This was the music of his last farewell!

"Weep not, my brother! though thou seest me led By short and easy stages, day by day,

With motion almost imperceptible

Into the quiet grave. God's will be done.
Even when a boy, in doleful solitude

My soul oft sate within the shadow of death!
And when I look'd along the laughing earth,
Up the blue heavens, and through the middle air
Joyfully ringing with the skylark's song,

I wept! and thought how sad for one so young
To bid farewell to so much happiness.

But Christ hath called me from this lower world,
Delightful though it be-and when I gaze
On the green earth and all its happy hills,
'Tis with such feelings as a man beholds
A little farm which he is doom'd to leave
On an appointed day. Still more and more
He loves it as that mournful day draws near,
But hath prepared his heart-and is resigned."
-Then lifting up his radiant eyes to heaven,
He said with fervent voice-" O what were life
Even in the warm and summer-light of joy
Without those hopes, that, like refreshing gales
At evening from the sea, come o'er the soul
Breathed from the ocean of eternity.

-And oh

without them who could bear the storms

That fall in roaring blackness o'er the waters
Of agitated life! Then hopes arise

All round our sinking souls like those fair birds
O'er whose soft plumes the tempest hath no power,
Waving their snow-white wings amid the darkness,
And wiling us with gentle motion, on

To some calm island! on whose silvery strand
Dropping at once, they fold their silent pinions,-
And as we touch the shores of paradise
In love and beauty walk around our feet!"

LITTLE LILYBELL.

A delicious lyric by GERALD MASSEY.

WHEN unseen fingers part the leaves,
To show us beauty's face,

And earth her breast of glory heaves,
And glows from Spring's embrace;
When flowers on green and golden wings
Float up-Life's sea doth swell
And flush a world of vernal things;
Came little Lilybell!

And like a blessed bird of calm,

Our love's sweet wants she still'd;

Made passion's fiery wine run balm,
Life's glory half fulfill'd.

From dappled dawn to twinkling dark,

Our witching Ariel

Moves through our heaven! O, like a lark

Sings little Lilybell!

And she is fair-O, very fair!

With eyes so like the dove;

And lightly leans her world of care

Upon our arms of love!

It cannot be that ye will break

The promise-tale ye tell;

Ye will not make such fond hearts ache,
Our little Lilybell!

As on Life's stream her leaflets spread,
And tremble in its flow,

We shudder lest the awful dead

Pluck at her from below!

Breathe faint and low, ye winds that start;
O stream, but softly swell;

Your every motion smites the heart
For little Lilybell!

We tremble lest the Angel Death,
Who comes to gather flowers
For Paradise, at her sweet breath
Should fall in love with ours!

O, many a year may come and go,
Ere from Life's mystic well

Such stream shall flow, such flower shall blow,
As little Lilybell!

Ah, when her dear heart fills with fears,
And aches with Love's sweet pain,
And pale cheeks burn through happy tears,
Like red rose in the rain!

I marvel, sweet, if we shall see
The sight, and say 'tis well,
When the Beloved calls for thee,
Our dainty Lilybell?

How rich love made the lowly sod,
Where such a flower hath blown!
O love, we love, and think that God
Is such a love full-grown!

Dear God! that gave the blessed trust,
Be near, that all be well;

And morn and eve bedew our dust,
For love of Lilybell!

HALLOWED GROUND.

By THOMAS CAMPBELL.

WHAT'S hallow'd ground? Has earth a clod
Its Maker meant not should be trod
By man, the image of his God
Erect and free,
Unscourged by Superstition's rod
To bow the knee?

That's hallow'd ground-where, mourn'd and miss'd,
The lips repose our love has kiss'd;
But where's their memory's mansion? Is't
Yon churchyard's bowers ?

No! in ourselves their souls exist,
A part of ours.

A kiss can consecrate the ground

Where mated hearts are mutual bound:
The spot where love's first links were wound,
That ne'er are riven,

Is hallow'd down to earth's profound,
And up to heaven!

For time makes all but true love old;
The burning thoughts that then were told
Run molten still in memory's mould;
And will not cool,

Until the heart itself be cold

In Lethe's pool.

What hallows ground where heroes sleep?
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap!
In dews that heavens far distant weep
Their turf may bloom;

Or Genii twine beneath the deep
Their coral tomb:

But strew his ashes to the wind

Whose sword or voice has served mankind-
And is he dead whose glorious mind

Lifts thine on high?

To live in hearts we leave behind,

Is not to die.

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