Like the smell of the vine, when its early bloom
Sprinkles the green lane with sunny perfume,
Such a delicate fragrance filled the room:
Whether it came from the vine without,
Or arose from her presence, I dwell in doubt.

Light shadows played on the pictured wall
From the maples that fluttered outside the hall,
And hindered the daylight-yet ah! not all;
Too little for that all the forest would be,--
Such a sunbeam she was, and is, to me!

When my sense returned, as the song was o'er,

I fain would have said to her, "Sing it once more," But soon as she smiled my wish I forbore:

Music enough in her look I found,

And the hush of her lip seemed sweet as the sound.

Phæbe Carey.

THE CHRISTIAN

WOMAN.

OH, beautiful as Morning in those hours

W nen, as her pathway lies along the hills, Her golden fingers wake the dewy flowers,

And softly touch the waters of the rills,
Was she who walked more faintly day by day
Till silently she perished by the way.

It was not hers to know that perfect heaven
Of passionate love returned by love as deep;

Not hers to sing the cradle-song at even,

Watching the beauty of her babe asleep; "Mother and brethren"-these she had not known, Save such as do the Father's will alone.

Yet found she something still for which to live-
Hearths desolate, where angel-like she came,
And "little ones" to whom her hand could give
A cup of water in her Master's name;
And breaking hearts to bind away from death,
With the soft hand of pitying Love and Faith.

She never won the voice of popular praise;

But, counting earthly triumph as but dross, Seeking to keep her Saviour's perfect ways,

Bearing in the still path His blessed cross, She made her life, while with us here she trod, A consecration to the will of GOD!

And she hath lived and laboured not in vain : Through the deep prison-cells her accents thrill, And the sad slave leans idly on his chain,

And hears the music of her singing still;

While little children, with their innocent praise,
Keep freshly in men's hearts her Christian ways.

And what a beautiful lesson she made known!-
The whiteness of her soul sin could not dim;
Ready to lay down on God's altar-stone

The dearest treasure of her life for Him.
Her flame of sacrifice never, never waned:
How could she live and die so self-sustained?

For friends supported not her parting soul,

And whispered words of comfort kind and sweet, When treading onward to that final goal

Where the still bridegroom waited for her feet;

Alone she walked, yet with a fearless tread,

Down to Death's chamber, and his bridal bed'

Thomas Buchanan Read.

THE STRANGER ON THE SILL.

BETWEEN broad fields of wheat and corn

Is the lowly home where I was born;
The peach-tree leans against the wall,
And the woodbine wanders over all;
There is the shaded doorway still,
But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill.

There is the barn—and, as of yore,
I can smell the hay from the open door,
And see the busy swallow's throng,
And hear the pewee's mournful song;

But the stranger comes-oh! painful proof-
His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.

There is the orchard-the very trees
Where my childhood knew long hours of ease,
And watched the shadowy moments run
Till my life imbibed more shade than sun;
The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,
But the stranger's children are swinging there.

There bubbles the shady spring below,

With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow;

'Twas there I found the calamus-root,

And watched the minnows poise and shoot,

And heard the robin lave its wing,

But the stranger's bucket is at the spring.

O ye, who daily cross the sill,

Step lightly, for I love it still;

And when you crowd the old barn-eaves,
Then think what countless harvest-sheaves
Have passed within that scented door
To gladden eyes that are no more!

Deal kindly with these orchard-trees;
And when your children crowd their knees
Their sweetest fruit they shall impart,
As if old memories stirred their heart:
To youthful sport still leave the swing,
And in sweet reverence hold the spring.
The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds,
The meadows with their lowing herds,
The woodbine on the cottage wall—
My heart still lingers with them all.
Ye strangers on my native sill,
Step lightly, for I love it still!

A

PASSING THE ICEBERGS.

FEARLESS shape of brave device,

Our vessel drives through mist and rain,

Between the floating fleets of ice

The navies of the northern main.

These arctic ventures, blindly hurled
The proofs of Nature's olden force-
Like fragments of a crystal world

Long shattered from its skyey course.

These are the buccaneers that fright

The middle sea with dream of wrecks, And freeze the south winds in their flight, And chain the Gulf-stream to their decks.

At every dragon prow and helm

There stands some Viking as of yore; Grim heroes from the boreal realm Where ODIN rules the spectral shore.

And oft beneath the sun or moon

Their swift and eager falchions glowWhile, like a storm-vexed wind, the rune Comes chafing through some beard of snow.

And when the far north flashes up

With fires of mingled red and gold, They know that many a blazing cup Is brimming to the absent bold.

Up signal there, and let us hail

Yon looming phantom as we pass ! Note all her fashion, hull, and sail, Within the compass of your glass.

See at her mast the steadfast glow

Of that one star of ODIN's throne; Up with our flag, and let us show

The Constellation on our own!