SENECA LAKE.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake,
The white swan spreads his snowy sail,
And round his breast the ripples break,
As down he bears before the gale.

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream,
The dipping paddle echoes far,
And flashes in the moonlight gleam,
And bright reflects the polar star.

The waves along thy pebbly shore,

As blows the north wind, heave their foam, And curl around the dashing oar,

As late the boatman hies him home.

How sweet, at set of sun, to view

Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue

Float round the distant mountain's side!

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake,

Oh! I could ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er.

JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

THE SNOW ANGEL.

The sleigh bells danced that winter night;
Old Brattleboro rang with glee;

The windows overflowed with light;

Joy ruled each hearth and Christmas tree,
But to one the bells and mirth were naught:
His soul with deeper joy was fraught.
He waited until the guests were gone
He waited to dream his dream alone;
And the night wore on.

Alone he stands in the silent night;
He piles the snow in the village square;
With spade for a chisel, a statue white
From the crystal quarry rises fair.
No light save the stars to guide his hard,
But the image obeys his soul's command.
The sky is draped with fleecy lawn,
The stars grow pale in the early dawn,
But the lad toils on.

And lo! in the morn the people came
To gaze at the wondrous vision there;
And they call it " The Angel," divining its name,
For it came in silence and unaware.
It seemed no mortal hand had wrought
The uplifted face of prayerful thought;
But its features wasted beneath the sun;
Its life went out ere the day was done;
And the lad dreamed on.

And his dream was this: In the years to be
I will carve the Angel in lasting stone;
In another land beyond the sea

I will toil in darkness, I will dream alone,
While others sleep I will find a way

Up through the night to the light of day.
There's nothing desired beneath star or sun
Which patient genius has not won.
And the boy toiled on.

The years go by. He has wrought with might.
He has gained renown in a land of art;
But the thought inspired that Christmas night
Still kept its place in the sculptor's heart;
And the dream of the boy that melted away
In the light of the sun that winter day,
Is embodied at last in enduring stone,
Snow Angel in marble- his purpose won;
And the man toils on.

WALLACE BRUCE,

KAATSKILL ON THE HUDSON.

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson, must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen far away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day produces some change in the magical lines and shapes of these mountains; and they are regarded by the good wives far and near as perfect barometers. When

the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear, evening sky; but sometimes when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapor about their summits, which in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.

WASHINGTON IRVING.

EL CAPITAN.

The most impassive granite wonder in the Yosemite Valley is the great rock, El Capitan, gray in the shadow, and white in the sun. Standing out a vast cube with a half mile front, a half mile side, three-fifths of a mile high, and seventy-three hundred feet above the sea, it is almost the crowning triumph of solid geometry. Well did the Indians name him Tu-touch-ah-nu-lah,- Great Chief of the Valley. When you reach the valley he towers above you in the left. He grows grander and more solemn every step of the way. When you stand beneath him he blots out the world; when you stand near the base he blots out the sky. Get as far from him as you can, he never diminishes. He follows you as you go. He is the overwhelming presence of the place. You never tire seeing the eastern sunshine move down the front like a smile on a human face. You never tire seeing the great shadows roll out across the broad meadows as the sun descends and rises like the tide in the Fundy's Bay, till the valley is half filled with night, and the tips of the tall trees are dipped like pens in ink. You never weary watching a light from a moon you cannot see, as it silvers the cornices and brightens the dusky front, as if wizards were painting their way down without a stage or scaffold. A dark spot starts out in the light. It turns in

to a great cedar. Pines that stand about the base resemble shrubs along a garden wall, though they are two hundred feet high. A few men have crept out to the eaves of El Capitan, looked over, crept back again. Little white clouds sail silently toward the lofty eaves and are gone as if to a dovecote in a garret. And yet the earthquake in 1872 rocked him like a cradle. The clocks in the valley all stopped as though, when El Capitan was moved, then" time shall be no more.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

MORNING.

As we proceeded, the timid approach of twilight became more perceptible; the intense blue of the sky began to soften; the smaller stars, like little children, went first to rest; the sister beams of the Pleiades soon melted together; but the bright constellations of the west and north remained unchanged. Steadily the wondrous transfiguration went on. Hands of angels hidden from mortal eyes shifted the scenery of the heavens; the glories of night dissolved into the glories of the dawn. The blue sky turned more softly gray; the great watch-stars shut up their holy eyes; the east began to kindle. Faint streaks of purple soon blushed along the sky: the whole celestial concave was filled with the inflowing tides of the morning light, which came pouring down from above in one great ocean of radiance; till at length, as we reached the Blue Hills, a flash of purple fire blazed out from above the horizon, and turned the dewy tear-drops of flower and leaf into rubies and diamonds. In a few seconds the everlasting gates of the morning were thrown wide open, and the lord of day, arrayed in glories too severe for the gaze of man, began his state. EDWARD EVERETT.