The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair, Above that head;

No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray

Says he is dead.

Where hast thou been this year, beloved?
What hast thou seen?

What visions fair, what glorious life,
Where thou hast been?

The veil the veil !-so thin, so strong,
"Twixt us and thee!-

The mystic veil! when shall it fall,
That we may see?

Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone;

But present still,

And waiting for the coming hour
Of GOD's Sweet will.

LORD of the living and the dead,

Our Saviour dear,

We lay in silence at Thy feet

This sad, sad year!

Anna Peyre Dinnies.

TO MY HUSBAND'S FIRST

GRAY

HAIR.

"I know thee not,-I loathe thy race;

But in thy lineaments I trace

What time shall strengthen, not efface."

Giaour.

HOU strange, unbidden guest! from whence

THOU

Thus early hast thou come?

And wherefore? Rude intruder, hence!

And seek some fitter home;

These rich young locks are all too dear,—

Indeed, thou must not linger here!

Go-take thy sober aspect where

The youthful cheek is fading,

Or find some furrowed brow, which Care
And Passion have been shading;

And add thy sad, malignant trace
To mar the aged or anguished face!

Thou wilt not go? Then answer me,

And tell what brought thee here!

Not one of all thy tribe I see

Beside thyself appear,

And through these bright and clustering curls

Thou shinest, a tiny thread of pearls.

Thou art a moralist? Ah, well!

And comest from Wisdom's land,

A few sage axioms just to tell?
Well! well! I understand:-

Old Truth has sent thee here to bear
The maxims which we fain must hear.

And now, as I observe thee nearer,
Thou'rt pretty-very pretty-quite
As glossy and as fair-nay, fairer-
Than these, but not so bright;
And since thou came Truth's messenger,
Thou shalt remain, and speak of her.

She says thou art a herald, sent
In kind and friendly warning,
To mix with locks by Beauty blent
(The fair young brow adorning),
And midst their wild luxuriance taught
To show thyself, and waken thought—

That thought, which to the dreamer preaches

A lesson stern as true,

That all things pass away, and teaches

How youth must vanish too!

And thou wert sent to rouse anew

This thought, whene'er thou meet'st the view.

And comes there not a whispering sound—
A low, faint, murmuring breath,
Which, as thou movest, floats around

Like echoes in their death ?—

"Time onward sweeps, youth flies, prepare!" Such is thine errand, First Gray Hair.

Rose Terry.

THE FISHING-SONG.

Down

OWN in the wide gray river,
The current is sweeping strong;

Over the wide gray river

Floats the fisherman's song.

Life that was spent and vanished,

Love that had died of wrong,

Hearts that are dead in living,

Come back in the fisherman's song.

I see the maples leafing,

Just as they leafed before;

The green grass comes no greener
Down to the very shore-

With the rude strain swelling, sinking,
In the cadence of days gone by,
As the oar, from the water drinking,
Ripples the mirrored sky.

Yet the soul hath life diviner;

Its past returns no more,

But in echoes, that answer the minor
Of the boat-song, from the shore.

And the ways of God are darkness;
His judgment waiteth long;
He breaks the heart of a woman
With a fisherman's careless song.

REVE DU MIDI.

WHEN o'er the mountain steeps

WHEN

The hazy noontide creeps,

And the shrill cricket sleeps

Under the grass;

When soft the shadows lie,
And clouds sail o'er the sky,

And the idle winds go by,

With the heavy scent of blossoms as they pass—

Then, when the silent stream

Lapses as in a dream,

And the water-lilies gleam

Up to the sun;

When the hot and burdened day

Rests on its downward way,

When the moth forgets to play,

And the plodding ant may dream her work is done—

Then, from the noise of war

And the din of earth afar,

Like some forgotten star

Dropped from the sky

The sounds of love and fear,

All voices sad and clear,