1

All brilliant flowers are pale and dead
And sadly droop to earth,
While pansies chill in velvet robes

Count life but little worth;
But in these dark November days

That wander wild and wet,

Our thoughts are winged to summer hours
On breath of mignonette.

Along the garden ways of life

Droop withered hopes to-day;

Blooms that we thought were immortelles
Have faded quite away;

But on the graves of friendships dead
Some frail sweet flowers are set,
Whose autumn fragrance thrills the heart
Like breath of mignonette.

Of a cheerful, sunny disposition, Mrs. Peirson is yet loyal to the sober side of life, and with faithful affection, and remembrance hallowed by tears, she can meditate tenderly

OVER THE GRAVES.

Ermine robes of the winter's weaving
Jeweled and gilt by the shining sun;
Autumn leaves in their glory leaving

Lonely trees when their work is done;
Summer rains in their quiet weeping,
Bending the daisy's crown of snow,
Fall on graves in whose silent keeping

Slumber our loved ones cold and low.

Tiny fingers of creeping grasses

Weave a coverlet fresh and fair, Gently stirred by the wind that passes With low sound as the voice of prayer;

Tiny fingers of creeping mosses

Note the words on the marble cold,

Cover the dates of our sad losses,

Touch the names that we loved of old.

Crickets chirp in the leafy places,

Honey bees in the blossoms throng, Sailing shadow on shadow chases,

Birds encumber the air with song;

Ivies clamber over the crosses,

Droop and cling to the earthy mold, Catching sweets that the lily losses

Down from her cup of white and gold.

Silent and sad the mighty shadows
Settle over each mossy mound;
Sailing fogs from the marshy meadows
Gently, mistily wrap them round;
Moonbeams bright with shadowy edges
Caught from the dark fir trees they pass,
Shimmer and gleam like silver wedges
Dropped adown in the dewy grass.

Starry lights in the heavenly spaces
Watch above in the solemn night;
Guarding mists that the day displaces
Rise on sunbeam ladders of light;
Bending roses of summer pressing

Sweet red lips to the daisy snow,
Murmur ever of peace and blessing
Over our loved ones cold and low!

Mrs. Peirson's thought is quite religiously inclined, and nearly all her poems are of a soberly reflective character. Now and then she paints a picture, but even the picture has in it something of moralizing. Moral izing so pleasantly phrased, however, is very pleasant reading, especially when hid in the guise of

A SWEDISH LEGEND.

It is told in Swedish story,

'Mong the legends quaint and old,
How a priest and monk were passing
Where the river waters rolled,
And were hushed to silent wonder

At the music strange and sweet
That among the high rocks echoed
Yet seemed rising round their feet.

They beheld a merman floating

On the waters rippling bright,
And his long hair fell about him
Like a flood of golden light,

While his lute's sweet music sounded
All the rocks and hills among,

And afar a deep-toned answer

From the chapel bell was flung.

"Hush, for shame!" the prelate shouted

"For such as you it is not meet

To give forth such luring music

To delay all passing feet,

For no more your sinful spirit

Can be saved from endless strife

Than this worn, dead staff I'm holding

Can renew its blooming life."

Then a wailing sounded wildly

From the merman left alone,
And a sadness seemed to echo

In the chapel bell's deep tone,
While the monks in fear and trembling,
Looked upon their angry chief,
For behold! the staff he walked with
Bursting into bud and leaf!

Awe and pain, and deep contrition
Crept into the prelate's heart,
As he thought how far and proudly
He had kept himself apart
From all lower, weaker classes;

Drooping low on bended knee
Prayed he with an humbled spirit-
"Teach me love and charity!"

Ne'er before that morning service
Sounded priestly words so sweet,

Never did the monks so meekly
Each devout response repeat;
While a faint, sweet music echoed
Up the chapel aisles and stairs,
Chiming softly with the chanting,

Mingling sweetly with the prayers!

It is the privilege of but few, always to stand upon the mountain-tops. Yet they who walk the low-lands, far beneath, at evening gray or morning dawn, or through long twilight times between, may see with Mrs. Peirson, if they will, the glad

LIGHT ON THE HILLS

Light on the distant hills!

While we in shadow rest,

A light that gleams through broken clouds
That sail from east to west,

That break and move and drift apart,
Revealing clearest blue,

And silver edges bright and clear
Where gleams the sunshine through.

Light on the distant hills!

Where pure on winter days

The white snow lies against the skies;
Where autumn's robes of haze
Fall round her golden sandaled feet,
Where summer grasses creep;
O'er which the years with dying tears
Pass onward to their sleep.

Light on the distant hills!

Beyond whose farthest rim

Are loving friends whose trust and truth
Through changes grow not dim;

Are homes where welcome warm awaits
And pleasures wing the hours;
And graves where faithful hearts are still
Beneath the grass and flowers.

Light on the distant hills!

That clearly, calmly rise,

Though weary grow the youthful feet
And dim the love-lit eyes;

The calm, grand, everlasting hills,

That ever changeless stand,