And lo! they have passed from our yearning heart;
They cross the stream, and are gone for āye;
We may not sunder the veil apart

That hides from our vision the gates of day;
We only know that their bark no mōre
May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;
Yět somewhere, I know, on the unseen shōrc,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.
4. And I sit and think, when the sunset's gōld
Is flushing river, and hill, and shōre,

I shall one day stand by the water cold,

And list for the sound of the boatman's ōar;
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail;
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand;
I shall pass from sight, with the boatman pale,
To the better shore of the spirit-land;
I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The Angel of Death shall carry me.

MISS PRIEST.

SECTION XXIX.

I.

107. THE KINDLY WINTER.

HE snow lies deep upon the ground;

THE

In coat of mail the pools are bound;
The hungry rooks in squadrons fly,
And winds are slumbering in the sky.

2. Drowsily the snow-flakes fall;
The robin on the garden-wall
Looks wistful at our window-pane,
The customary crumb to gain.

3. On barn and thatch and leaflèss tree
The frost has hung embroidery,

Fringe of ice, and pendants fine

Of filigree' and crystalline.'

4. Pile up the fire! the winter wind
Although it nip, is not unkind;

And winter days, though dark, can bring
As many pleasures as the spring.

3

5. If not the floweret budding fair,
And mild effulgence of the air,
They give the glow of indoor mirth,
And social comfort round the hearth.

6. The winter is a friend of mine;
His step is light, his eyeballs shine;
His cheek is ruddy as the morn ;
He carols like the lark in corn.

7. His tread is brisk upon the snows,
His pulses gallop as he goes;
He hath a smile upon his lips,

With songs and welcome, jests and quips.*

8. "Tis he that feeds the April buds;

"Tis he that clothes the summer woods;
"Tis he makes plump the autumn grain,
And loads with wealth the creaking wain.

9. Pile up the fire! and ere he go,

5

Our blessings on his head shall flow,-
The hale old winter, bleak and sear,"
The friend and father of the year!

'Fil' i gree, granular net-work, or net-work containing beads; hence, ornamental work, executed in fine gold or silver wire, plaited and formed into delicate figures of men and animals, fruits, plants, &c.

2 Crys' tal line, consisting of or resembling crystal; pure; clear.

3 Ef fùl′ ġěnce, a flood of light; great luster or brightness; splendor.

4 Quip (kwĭp), a smart, sarcastic

MACKAY.'

turn; a severe reply; a jeer.
5 Blēak, cold and sweeping; cheer-
less.

6 Sear, dry; withered.

'Charles Mǎċ kāy', a British poet and journalist, was born in Perth, in 1812. He is an author of considerable fame. Many of his songs have attained great popularity, and the music to which they are set is, in some cases, of his own composition.

IN

II.

108. INSTRUCTION IN WINTER.

N the warm portion of our year, when the sun reigns, and the fields are carpeted with herbs and flowers, and the forests are loaded with riches and magnificence, nature seems to insist on instructing us herself, and in her own easy, insensible' way. In the mild and whispering air there is an invitation to go abroad which few can resist; and when abroad, we are in a school where all may learn without trouble or tasking, and where we may be sure to learn if we will simply open our hearts.

2. But stern winter comes, and drives us back into our towns and houses, and there we must sit down, and learn and teach with serious application of the mind, and by the prompting of duty. As we are bidden to this exertion, so are we better able to make it than in the preceding season. The body, which was befōre unnerved, is now braced up to the extent of its capacity; and the mind, which was before dissipated by the fair variety of external attractions, collects and concentrates its powers, as those attractions fade and disappear.

2

3. The natural limits of day and night, also, conspire to the same end, and are in unison with the other intimations of the season. In summer, the days, glad to linger on the beautiful earth, almost exclude the quiet and contem'plative nights, which are only long enough for sleep. But in the winter, the latter gain the ascendency. Slowly and royally they sweep back with their broad shadows, and hushing the earth with the double spell of darkness and coldness, issue their silent mandates,' and-while the still snow falls, and the waters are congealed-call to reflection, to study, to mental labor and acquisition.

4. The long winter nights! Dark, cold, and stern as they seem, they are the friends of wisdom, the patrons of literature," the nurses of vigorous, patient, inquisitive, and untiring intel

1 In sění si ble, not perceivable.
2 Unison (ūni sun), agreement;

union.

+ Patron, one who, or that which, countenances, supports, or protects. 5 Lĭt' er a tūre, learning; the col

* Măn' date, an official command; lective body of letters or books, or an authoritative order.

an acquaintance with them.

lect. To some, indeed, they come particularly associated, when not with gloom, with various gay scenes of amusement, with lighted halls, lively music, and many friends. To others, the dearest scene which they present is the cheerful fireside, instructive books, studious and industrious children, and those friends, whether many or few, whom the heart and experience acknowledge to be such.

5. Society has claims; social intercourse is profitable as well as pleasant; amusements are naturally sought for by the young; and such as are innocent they may well partake of. But it may be asked, whether, when amusements run into excess, they do not leave their innocence behind them in the career; whether light social intercourse, when it takes up a great deal of time, has any thing valuable to pay in return for that time; and whether the claims of society can in any way be better satisfied than by the intelligence, the sobriety, and the peaceableness of its members.

6. Such qualities and habits must be acquired at home; and and not by idleness even there, but by study. The winter evenings seem to be given to us, not exclusively, but chiefly, for instruction. They invite us to instruct ourselves, to instruct others, and to do our part in furnishing all proper means of instruction. Altered from GREENWOOD.1

III.

109. SNOW-BOUND-EVENING.

NWARMED by any sunset light,

UN

The gray day darkened into night,-
A night made hōary with the swarm
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm,
As zigzag, wavering to and fro,

Crossed and recrossed the winged snow:
And ere the early bed-time came
The white drift filled the windōw-frame,
And through the glass the clothes-line posts
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.

1 Francis W. P. Greenwood, D.D., an American clergyman and author, was born in Boston, Feb. 5,

1797, and died in that city, Aug 2, 1843. He had a strong and cultivated taste for the natural sciences.

2. We piled, with care, our nightly stack
Of wood against the chimney-back,—
The oaken log, green, huge, and thick,
And on its top the stout backstick;
The knotty fōrestick laid apart,
And filled between with curious art
The ragged brush; then, hovering near,
We watched the first red blaze appear,
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam,
Until the old rude-furnished room
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom;
While radiant with a mimic flame
Outside the sparkling drift became,
And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree
Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free.

3. Shut in from all the world without,
We sat the clean-winged hearth about,
Content to let the north wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door,
While the red logs befōre us beat
The frost-line back with tropic heat;
And ever, when a louder blast

Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
The merrier up its roaring draught
The great throat of the chimney laughed.

4. The house-dog on his paws outspread
Laid to the fire his drowsy head;
The cat's dark shadow on the wall
A couchant' tiger's seemed to fall;
And, for the winter fireside meet,
Between the andirons' straddled feet,
of cider simmered slow,

The mug

The apples sputtered in a row,

And, close at hand, the basket stood

With nuts from brown October's wood.

1 Couch' ant, squatting; lying down with the head raised.