Slowly the Bible of the race is writ,
And not on paper leaves nor leaves of

stone;

Each age, each kindred, adds a verse to it,

Texts of despair or hope, of joy or moan. While swings the sea, while mists the mountains shroud,

While thunder's surges burst on cliff's of cloud,

Still at the prophets' feet the nations sit.

BEAVER BROOK.

HUSHED with broad sunlight lies the hill,

And, minuting the long day's loss,
The cedar's shadow, slow and still,
Creeps o'er its dial of gray moss.

Warm noon brims full the valley's cup,
The aspen's leaves are scarce astir;
Only the little mill sends up
Its busy, never-ceasing burr.

Climbing the loose-piled wall that hems
The road along the mill-pond's brink,
From 'neath the arching barberry-stems,
My footstep scares the shy chewink.

Beneath a bony buttonwood

The mill's red door lets forth the din; The whitened miller, dust-imbued, Flits past the square of dark within.

No mountain torrent's strength is here; Sweet Beaver, child of forest still,

Swift slips Undine along the race Unheard, and then, with flashing bound, Floods the dull wheel with light and

grace,