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So good, so kind is she to me,

In darling ways and happy words, Sometimes my heart fears she may be Too much with God and secretly Sweet sister to the birds.

PART V.-SHE SPEAKS.

Could I recall every joy that befell me
There in the past with its anguish and bliss,
Here in my heart it has whispered to tell me,
These were no joys to this.

Were it not well if our love could forget them,
Veiling the was with the dawn of the is?
Dead with the past we should never regret them,
These were no joys to this.

When they were gone and the present stood

speechful,

Ardent with word and with look and with kiss, What though we know that their eyes are beseechful,

These were no joys to this.

Is it not well to have more of the spirit,
Living high futures this earthly must miss?

Less of the flesh with the past pining near it?-
Such is the joy of this.

A TALE OF THE ROAD.

BY AN OLD ENGINEER.

No, my running days are over,

The engineer needs rest; My hand is shaky, children,

There's a tugging pain in my breast. But here in the twilight gather,

I'll tell you a tale of the road That will ring in my head forever, Till it rests beneath the sod.

We were lumbering on in the twilight,
The night was dropping her shade,
And the "Gladiator" labored,
Climbing the top of the grade.
The train was heavily laden,
So I let my engine rest,
Climbing the grading slowly,

Till we reached the upland's crest.

I held my watch to the lamp-light,
Ten minutes behind the time,
Lost in the slackened motion

Of the upgrade's heavy climb;
But I knew the miles of the prairie
That stretched a level track;
So I touched the gauge of the boiler,
And pulled the lever back.

Over the rails a-gleaming,
Forty an hour or so,
The engine leaped like a demon
Breathing a fiery glow;
But to me, a-hold of the lever,
She seemed a child alway,
Ready to mind me ever,

And my lightest touch obey.

I was proud, you know, of my engine,
Holding her steady that night,
With my eye on the track before us
Ablaze with the Drummond light.
We neared a well-known cabin,
Where a child of three or four
Oft waved to me a signal,
A-playing round the door.

Matrons who toss the cup, and see
The grounds of fate in grounds of Tea.
CHURCHILL, The Ghost.

And finding nature fast in fate,
Left free the human will.

POPE, The Universal Prayer.

Heaven from all creatures hides the Book of Fate,
All but the page prescrib'd, their present state;
From brutes what men, from men what spirits
know;

Or who could suffer being here below?
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleased to the last he crops the flowing food,
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.
Oh! blindness to the future! kindly given,
That each may fill the circle mark'd by heav'n,
Who sees, with equal eye, as God of all,
A heron perish, or a sparrow fall.