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ITH mingled trembling and delight,
And slowly falling, feet,

A little country maiden now
Is passing down the street ;
A country child, -I know it by
Her timid air, her wandering eye.
The sunlight warm has kissed her brow,

And tinged her cheek with brown;
The odour of the violets

Comes with her to the town ;
We almost guess the woodland place
Where she has dwelt, from her sweet face!

We almost read her inner thoughts

Through her large wistful eyes;
How bright to her the city seems,

How much like paradise,
As Nature's child, with bounding heart,

Looks, for the first glad time, on art.

She seems to bring the country here

Its birds, its flowers, its dew ;
And slowly, as amid the throng,

She passes from our view,
We watch her sadly, as we might
Some pleasant landscape fade from sight.
Ah, well! we would not keep her here,

These dusty streets to roam ;
So fair a flower should open with

The daisy buds at home ; 'Mid primrose stars, as sweet and wild As she will be- dear woodland child!

Marion Douglas. THE MARCH OF TIME.

N the palace, in the cottage,

IN by the river, by the rili,

Time is ever marching onward,

Ever onward-onward still ;
Never tiring, never resting,

Neither bending to our will;
Hastening on with even footstep,

Ever onward-onward still.
Secrets lost in dark oblivion,

Human tongue shall never tell ;
Time, their keeper, little heeding,

Marches onward-onward still.
Dreams and echoes of the past time

Waken in our memory's thrill ;
Showing by their silent teaching,

Time is onward marching still.


ORN and footsore was the prophet

When he gained the holy hill;

“ God hath left the earth,” he murmured, Here the presence lingers still. God of all the olden prophets,

Wilt thou speak with men no more ? Have I not as truly served thee

As thy chosen ones of yore ? Hear me, Guide of my fathers,

Lo! a humble heart is mine; By Thy mercy I beseech Thee, Grant Thy servant but a sign.”

Bowing then his head, he listened

For an answer to his prayer ; No loud burst of thunder followed,

Not a murmur stirred the air ;
But the tuft of moss before him

Opened while he waited yet,
And, from out the rock's hard bosom,

Sprang a tender violet. "God, I thank thee!” said the prophet,

“ Hard of heart, and blind was I, Looking to the holy mountain

For the gift of prophecy.
Still thou speakest with Thy children-

Freely as in old sublime;
Humbleness and love and patience

Still give empire over time. Had I trusted in my nature,

And had faith in lowly things, Thou thyself wouldst then have sought me,

And set free my spirit's wings. But I looked for signs and wonders

That o'er men should give the sway ; Thirsting to be more than mortal,

I was even less than clay Ere I entered on my journey,

As I girt my loins to start,
Ran to me my little daughter,

The beloved of my heart.
In her hand she held a flower,

Like to this as like may be,
Which, beside my very threshold,
She had plucked and brought to me.



T PON the sadness of the sea

The sunset broods regretfully,

From the far, lonely spaces, slow
Withdraws the wistful after-glow.
So out of life the splendour dies;
So darkens all the happy skies;
So gathers twilight, cold and stern ;-
But overhead the planets burn.
And out the east another day
Shall chase the bitter dark away,
What though our eyes with tears be wet ?
The sunrise never failed us yet.
The blush of dawn may yet restore
Our light, and hope, and joy once more.
Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget
The sunrise never failed us yet.



F all amusements for the mind,

From logic down to fishing,

There isn't one that you can find
So very cheap as “wishing."
A very choice diversion, too,

If we but rightly use it,
And not, as we are apt to do,

Pervert it, and abuse it.
I wish—a common wish indeed-

My purse were somewhat fatter,
That I might cheer the child of need,

And not my pride to flatter;

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