TH

A QUIET PLACE.*

'HERE'S a quiet place where I often go,
When the sun is in the west,

And the evening breezes, as they blow
O'er the trees above and the lake below,
Seem sighing themselves to rest;

Where under the bank beneath the feet
There lies a hidden well;

Where the hanging boughs the waters meet,
And the moor-hen finds a safe retreat,
And the swan delights to dwell.

For there have I heard the cuckoo's call,
And the lay of the nightingale,

The cooing of doves in the tree-tops tall,
And the distant sound of the waterfall
Come creeping up the vale.

And in the far-off haze I have seen

The slopes of the circling hill,

And, the arching boughs of the trees between,
The broad expanse of the meadows green
Lie peacefully and still.

I have seen the water smooth as glass,

Or the ripples o'er it fleet,

When the winds that move it, as they pass,

Bear the scent of dew-besprinkled grass

And the odour of flowers sweet.

*The spot here referred to is Mongewell, near Wallingford, the seat of my kind patron, Mr. Geo. H. Brettle.

I have watched the shades of twilight glide Over the peaceful scene,

Till the stars stole forth on the heavens wide, And the moonbeams fell on the tranquil tide In streams of silver sheen.

Oh there is no vale I ever knew

That has such charms for me,

Where the earth assumes a brighter hue,
And the sky seems tinged with a deeper blue,
And the flowers more fair to see.

And still contented shall be my lot,
Whether I laugh or weep,

If, the busy cares of the world forgot,
I may visit that sweet, secluded spot,
Where the woods and waters sleep.

"THE GRASS OF THE FIELD.”

WH

HEN at morn I walked the meadows, Tall and thick the grass had sprung; Honey-seeking bees flew round it ; High o'erhead the gay lark sung; While upon its nodding flowers

Many a glistening dew-drop hung.

Then I thought of hopes long cherished,
When my heart was young and light,
Works begun with brilliant promise,
When the morn of life was bright,
And the landscape of the future
Stretched before my raptured sight.

But I passed again at noontide-
Sadly changed was then the scene,
For the grass lay dry and withered
Which at morn was fresh and green,
While dead leaves were scattered round me
Where the blooming flowers had been.

And with saddened heart I pondered
O'er life's ever-changeful day;

How my deeds in naught had ended;
How my hopes had flown away;
How at morn they proudly blossomed,
And at noon they withered lay.

Yet I went once more at evening,

After sunset bright and fair,

When the twilight shades were gath❜ring,
And the dews had fallen there-
And the new-mown hay's sweet odour
Scented every breath of air.

Then I deemed myself contented
That my works should early meet
Such a sad and sudden ending
As the grass beneath my feet,
If to those who follow after

They in death but seem as sweet.

I

LONG AGO.

"The days that are no more."-Tennyson.

AM thinking of the days of long ago,

Till they rise once again before my sight, And my tears with the dark and weary flow,

And I laugh with the merry and the bright. There are some I am glad to reckon gone; There are some that are better far at rest; But some are so sweet to think upon

That even their memory is blest.

I am thinking of the friends of long ago,
Of the true, and the trusty, and the tried,
Whom still 'tis my happiness to know,

Though now they are no longer by my side : For, though distant be the day when last we met, And even death itself our pathway part,

Their faces seem to smile upon me yet,
And their voices echo deeply in my heart.

I am thinking of the joys of long ago,

How they shone o'er each sad and lonely spot, Till the darkest way with hopefulness would glow, And mercy came to cheer the hardest lot. There are some that have never known decay; There are some that still linger in my mind ; And, though some like the flowers fell away,

They have left a golden harvest-time behind.