Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast

Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd

O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes,

Or grim wide wave; and now the power is felt

Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods

Than any joy indulgent summer dealt.
Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve,
Pensive and glad, with tones that recognise
The soft invisible dew on each one's eyes,
It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave
To walk with memory, when distant lies

Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve.

MACKAY.

YOUTH AND SORROW.

"GET thee back, Sorrow, get thee back!
My brow is smooth, mine eyes are bright,
My limbs are full of health and strength,
My cheeks are fresh, my heart is light.
So, get thee back! oh, get thee back!
Consort with age, but not with me;
Why shouldst thou follow on my track?
I am too young to live with thee."

"O foolish Youth, to scorn thy friend!
To harm thee wherefore should I seek?
I would not dim thy sparkling eyes,
Nor blight the roses on thy cheek.
I would but teach thee to be true;
And should I press thee overmuch,
Ever the flowers that I bedew

Yield sweetest fragrance to the touch."

"Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back!
I like thee not; thy looks are chill.
The sunshine lies upon my heart,
Thou showest me the shadow still.
So, get thee back! oh, get thee back!
Nor touch my golden locks with grey;
Why shouldst thou follow on my track?
Let me be happy while I may."

"Good friend, thou needest sage advice; I'll keep thy heart from growing proud, I'll fill thy mind with kindly thoughts, And link thy pity to the crowd.

YOUTH AND SORROW.

Wouldst have a heart of pulseless stone?
Wouldst be too happy to be good?
Nor make a human woe thine own,
For sake of human brotherhood?"

"Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back!
Why should I weep while I am young?-
I have not piped-I have not danced-
My morning songs I have not sung:
The world is beautiful to me,

Why tarnish it to soul and sense?
Prithee begone! I'll think of thee
Some half a hundred winters hence."

"O foolish Youth, thou know'st me not;

I am the mistress of the earth-
"Tis I give tenderness to love;
Enhance the privilege of mirth;
Refine the human gold from dross;
And teach thee, wormling of the sod,
To look beyond thy present loss

To thy eternal gain with God."

"Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back!
I'll learn thy lessons soon enough;
If virtuous pleasure smooth my way,
Why shouldst thou seek to make it rough?

No fruit can ripen in the dark,

No bud can bloom in constant cold

So, prithee, Sorrow, miss thy mark,

Or strike me not till I am old."

"I am thy friend, thy best of friends;

No bud in constant heats can blow-
The green fruit withers in the drought,
But ripens where the waters flow.

The sorrows of thy youthful day

Shall make thee wise in coming years;

The brightest rainbows ever play

Above the fountains of our tears."

Youth frowned, but Sorrow gently smiled;

Upon his heart her hand she laid,

And all its hidden sympathies

Throbbed to the fingers of the Maid.

And when his head grew grey with Time,
He owned that Sorrow spoke the truth,
And that the harvest of his prime
Was ripened by the rains of Youth.

FRANCES BROWN.

THE HOPE OF THE RESURRECTION.

SUGGESTED BY THE REMARK OF AN AFRICAN CHIEF TO A MISSIONARY.

THY voice hath filled our forest shades,

Child of the sunless shore!

For never heard the ancient glades

Such wondrous words before.

Though bards our land of palms have filled
With tales of joy or dread,-

Yet thou alone our souls hast thrilled

With tidings of her dead.

The men of old, who slept in death
Before the forests grew,

Whose glory faded here beneath,
While yet the hills were new,—
The warriors famed in battles o'er,
Of whom our fathers spake,-

The wise, whose wisdom shines no more,-
Stranger, will they awake?

The foes who fell in thousand fights,

Beneath my conquering brand,—

Whose bones have strewn the Caffer's heights,
The Bushman's lonely land.—