Let them joy in their brilliant sun-lit skies,
And their sunset hues, who may;
But how softer far than the tints they prize
Is the dim of the twilight gray!

Tu-whoo!

Oh, a weary thing to an owlet's eyes
Is the garish blaze of day!

When the sweet dew sleeps in the midnight cool,
Some tall tree-top I win;

And the toad leaps up on her throne-shaped stool,
And our revels loud begin-

Tu-whoo!

While the bull-frog croaks o'er his stagnant pool,
Or plunges sportive in.

As the last lone ray from the hamlet fades
In the dark and still profound,

The night-bird sings in the cloister shades,
And the glow-worm lights the ground-
Tu-whoo!

And fairies trip o'er the broad green glades,
To the fire-flies circling round.

Tu-whoo! Tu-whoo!-All the livelong night
A right gladsome life lead we;

While the starry ones from their jewelled height
Bend down approvingly.

Tu-whoo!

They may bask who will in the noonday light,
But the midnight dark for me!

-MRS HEWITT.

LIGHT.

FROM the quickened womb of the primal gloom
The sun rolled black and bare,

Till I wove him a vest for his Ethiop breast
Of the threads of my golden hair;

And when the broad tent of the firmament
Arose on its airy spars,

I pencilled the hue of its matchless blue,
And spangled it round with stars.

I painted the flowers of the Eden bowers,
And their leaves of living green;

And mine were the dyes in the sinless eyes
Of Eden's virgin queen.

And when the fiend's art on her trustful heart
Had fastened its mortal spell,

In the silvery sphere of the first-born tear
To the trembling earth I fell.

When the waves that burst o'er a world accursed
Their work of wrath had sped,

And the ark's lone few, the tried and true,
Came forth among the dead,

With the wondrous gleams of my braided beams
I bade their terrors cease,

As I wrote on the roll of the storm's dark scroll
God's covenant of peace.

Like a pall at rest on a pulseless breast,
Night's funeral shadow slept,

Where shepherd swains on the Bethlehem plains
Their lonely vigils kept;

When I flashed on their sight the heralds bright
Of Heaven's redeeming plan,

As they chanted the morn of a Saviour born,
Joy, joy to the outcast Man!

Equal favour I show to the lofty and low,

On the just and unjust I descend;

E'en the blind, whose vain spheres roll in darkness and tears,
Feel my smile the blest smile of a friend.

Nay, the flower of the waste by my love is embraced,
As the rose in the garden of kings;

appear,

At the chrysalis bier of the worm Ĭ
And lo! the gay butterfly's wings!

The desolate Morn, like a mourner forlorn,
Conceals all the pride of her charms,

Till I bid the bright Hours chase the Night from her bowers,

And lead the young Day to her arms;

And when the gay rover seeks Eve for his lover,

I

And sinks to her balmy repose,

wrap their soft rest, by the zephyr-famed west,

In curtains of amber and rose.

From my sentinel steep, by the night-brooded deep,
I gaze with unslumbering eye,

When the cynosure star of the mariner

Is blotted from the sky;

And guided by me through the merciless sea,
Though sped by the hurricane's wing,

His compassless bark, lone, weltering, dark,
To the haven-home safely he brings.

I waken the flowers in their dew-spangled bowers,
The birds in their chambers of green,

And mountain and plain glow with beauty again,
As they bask in my matinal sheen.

Oh, if such the glad worth of my presence to earth,
Though fitful and fleeting the while,

What glories must rest on the home of the blest,
Ever bright with the DEITY'S Smile!

-W. P. PALMER.

INDIAN NAMES.

"How can the red men be forgotten, while so many of our states and territories, rivers and lakes, are designated by their names ?"

-ANON.

Wachusett hides their lingering voice
Within his rocky heart,
And Alleghany graves its tone
Throughout his lofty chart.
Monadnock on his forehead hoar
Doth seal the sacred trust,

Your mountains build their monument,
Though ye give the winds their dust.

TO MY BROTHER.

WE are but two-the others sleep
Through death's untroubled night;
We are but two-oh let us keep
The link that binds us bright.

Heart leaps to heart-the sacred flood
That warms us is the same;

That good old man-his honest blood
Alike we fondly claim.

We in one mother's arms were locked-
Long be her love repaid!

In the same cradle we were rocked,
Round the same hearth we played.
Our boyish sports were all the same,
Each little joy and wo;

Let manhood keep alive the flame
Lit up so long ago.

We are but one-be that the bond
To hold us till we die;

Shoulder to shoulder let us stand,
Till side by side we lie.

-CHARLES SPRAGUE.

"WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?"

"WHAT is that, mother?"

The lark, my child!

The moon has but just looked out and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away, with the dew on his breast

i

And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear:

Ever, my child, be thy morning lays

Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

"What is that, mother?"

The dove, my son!

And that low sweet voice, like a widow's moan,

Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return:
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love!
"What is that, mother?"

The eagle, boy!
Proudly careering his course of joy ;

Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying;
His wing on the wind, and his eye in the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on:
Boy! may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward, and upward, and true to the line!
"What is that, mother?"

The swan, my love!
He is floating down from his native grove;
No loved one now, no nestling nigh,

He is floating down by himself to die;

Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings:

Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home!

-G. W. DOANE.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

I LOVE to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,

And persuade myself that I am not old,

And my locks are not yet gray;

For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,
And makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice,

And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the world for fourscore years,
And they say that I am old;

That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death,
And my years are well-nigh told.

It is very true-it is very true—
I'm told, and I "bide my time;"

But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.

Play on play on! I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;

I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.