A MORNING THOUGHT.

WHAT if some morning, when the stars were paling,

And the dawn whitened, and the east was clear, Strange peace and rest fell on me from the pres

ence

Of a benignant spirit standing near;

And I should tell him, as he stood beside me:— "This is our earth-most friendly earth, and

fair;

Daily its sea and shore through sun and shadow Faithful it turns, robed in its azure air;

"There is blest living here, loving and serving, And quest of truth, and serene friendships

dear:

But stay not, Spirit! Earth has one destroyerHis name is Death: flee, lest he find thee here!"

And what if then, while the still morning brightened,

And freshened in the elm the summer's breath, Should gravely smile on me the gentle angel, And take my hand and say, "My name is Death"?

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.

NOW AND AFTERWARDS.

"Two hands upon the breast, and labor is past.”

-RUSSIAN PROVERB.

"Two hands upon the breast,

And labor 's done;

Two pale feet crossed in rest,—

The race is won;

Two eyes with coin-weights shut,

And all tears cease;

Two lips where grief is mute,

Anger at peace:

So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot; God in his kindness answereth not.

"Two hands to work addrest

Aye for his praise;

Two feet that never rest

Walking his ways; Two eyes that look above

Through all their tears;

Two lips still breathing love,

Not wrath, nor fears: "

So pray we afterwards, low on our knees; Pardon those erring prayers! Father, hear

these!

DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.

THE GRAVE OF SOPHOCLES.

TENDERLY, ivy, on Sophocles' grave-right tenderly twine

Garlanding over the mound network of delicate

green.

Everywhere flourish the flower of the rose, and the clustering vine

Pour out its branches around, wet with their glistering sheen.

All for the sake of the wisdom and grace it was his to combine;

Priest of the gay and profound, sweetest of singers terrene.

From the Greek of SIMMIAS. Translation of WILLIAM M. HARDINGE.

INSCRIPTION ON MELROSE ABBEY.

THE earth goes on the earth glittering in gold, The earth goes to the earth sooner than it wold; The earth builds on the earth castles and towers, The earth says to the earth-All this is ours.

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

MORTALITY, behold and fear
What a change of flesh is here!

Think how many royal bones

Sleep within these heaps of stones;
Here they lie, had realms and lands,

Who now want strength to stir their hands,
Where from their pulpits sealed with dust
They preach, “In greatness is no trust."
Here 's an acre sown indeed

With the richest royallest seed

That the earth did e'er suck in

Since the first man died for sin :

Here the bones of birth have cried

"Though gods they were, as men they died!"

Here are sands, ignoble things,

Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:
Here's a world of pomp and state

Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY
CHURCHYARD.

THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

The moping owl does to the moon complain