"Let us sing to God's praise," the minister said,

All the psalm books at once fluttered open at "York,"
Sunned their long dotted wings in the words that he read,
While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead,

And politely picked out the key-note with a fork,
And the vicious old viol went growling along
At the heels of the girls in the rear of the song.

I need not a wing-bid no genii come,
With a wonderful web from Arabian loom,

To bear me again up the River of Time,

When the world was in rhythm, and life was its rhyme;
Where the streams of the year flowed so noiseless and

narrow,

That across them there floated the song of a sparrow;

For a sprig of green caraway carries me there,

To the old village church and the old village choir,
When clear of the floor my feet slowly swung,
And timed the sweet praise of the songs as they sung,
Till the glory aslant of the afternoon sun
Seemed the rafters of gold in God's temple begun!

You may smile at the nasals of old Deacon Brown,
Who followed by scent till he ran the tune down;
And the dear sister Green, with more goodness than

grace,

Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood in her place,
And where "Coronation" exultingly flows,

Tried to reach the high notes on the tips of her toes!
To the land of the leal they went with their song,
Where the choir and the chorus together belong;
O, be lifted, ye gates! Let me hear them again—
Blessed song, blessed Sabbath, forever, amen!

We have spoken of Mr. Taylor as an artist in words. In prose or verse he paints a picture as few other artists can, with a grace of touch and a vividness of color especially his own. Here is one of his snow scenes, from

A WINTER PSALM.

As softly as on mountain air beatitudes were shed,
As gently as the lilies bud among the words He said,
So did the dear old Mountains lay the sparkling winter

down

Upon the poor dumb bosom of a world so bare and
brown--

So noiselessly and silently, such radiance and rest !

As if a snowy wing should fold upon a sparrow's breast.
Far thro' the dim uncertain air, as still as asters blow,
The downy drowsy feet untold tread out the world we

know;

Upon the pine's green fingers set, flake after flake they
land,

And flicker with a feeble light, amid the shadowy band;
Upon the meadows brood and brown where maids and

mowers sung;

Upon the meadows gay with gold the dandelions flung;.
Upon the farmyard's homely realm, on ricks and rugged

bars,

Till riven oak and strawy heap were domes and silver
spars;

The cottage was an eastern dream with alabaster eaves;
And lilacs growing round about with diamonds for leaves;
The well-sweep gray above the roof a silver accent stood,
And silver willows wept their way to meet a silver wood;

The russet groves had blossomed white and budded full
with stars,

The fences were in uniform, the gate-posts were hussars;
The chimneys were in turbans all, with plumes of crimson

smoke,

And the costly breaths were silver when the laughing chil-
dren spoke;

And gem and jewel everywhere along the tethers strung
Where mantling roses once had climbed and morning

glories swung.

So through the dim, uncertain air, as still as asters blow,
The downy drowsy feet untold tread out the world we

know.

In War Time, 1863, Mr. Taylor penned a brief lyric entitled "The Gospel of the Oak," and one may look long to find another bit of description so fine as this opening sonnet :

Up to the sun, magnificently near,

The Lord did build a Californian oak,
And took no Sabbath to the thousandth year,
But builded on until it bravely broke
Into that realm wherein the morning light
Walks to and fro upon the top of night!
Around that splendid shaft no hammers rang,
Nor giants wrought, nor truant angels sang,
But gentle winds and painted birds did bear
Its corner-stones of glory through the air;
Grand volumes green rolled up like cloudy weather,
And birds and stars went in and out together;
When Day on errands from the Lord came down,
It stepped from Heaven to that leafy crown!

Some of Mr. Taylor's contributions to Scribner's Monthly, within the past two years, have been veritable gems of descriptive poesy, and have found wide recognition. He has never been a prolific writer of verse, though of late he has written more than formerly. Much that he has penned has been in the way of longish poems, for special purposes of place and occasion; and some of these, from lack of careful work, have failed to do him justice. It is the misfortune of his temperament that he must labor under pressure of necessity—or thinks he must. Is a lecture to be written, he will wait until only a few days before his opening engagement for the season, and then dash it off at a heat. Is a poem to be delivered, likely as not he will pencil it down on bits of old letters, in the cars, on his way to the place of delivery.

As a natural consequence, there is often apparent lack of continuity of thought and idea, in his longer poems, as there is also, often, in his lectures. Yet frequent reading and careful search will always show that there is a logical connection of idea, and that the abruptness is more seeming than actual. The fault lies in a want of care for details, for the rounding out and linking in of thought and idea, for the perfection of rhythm, which give finish and symmetry. But even the severest critic can not find fault with Mr. Taylor long at a time. His rare conceits, his unequaled daintiness of touch, his close sympathy, his intense love for the human, his perfection of color, his wonderful appreciation of old-time

beauties, his unlooked-for quaintness, his strong originality, put criticism quite to flight. And believing with him, that song is everlasting, we join in the prayer he breathes at the close of his volume of "Old Time Pic

THE ROSE AND THE ROBIN.
The yellow rose leaves falling down
Pay golden toll to passing June,
The robin's breast of golden brown

Is trembling with an ancient tune.
The rose will bloom another year,

The robin and his wife will come,
But he who sees may not be here,
And he who sings be dumb.

Thy grace be mine, oh yellow rose!

My heart like thine its blossoms shed,
Grow fragrant to the fragrant close,
And sweetest when I'm dead.

And so like thee I'll pay my way
In coin that time can never rust,
And footsteps sound another day
Though feet have turned to dust!

Thy gift be mine, oh singing bird!

My song like thine round home and heart;

To Song, God never said the word

"To dust return, for dust thou art!"