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.

I am thinking of the griefs of long ago,

Of the trials and the sorrows that are fled, How some came with quick and sudden blow,

And others hovered slowly overhead; Yet how, when thicker trouble seemed my doom, And my heart underneath the burden bowed, The sun broke in splendour through the gloom, And cast the bow of promise on the cloud.

I am thinking of the hopes of long ago,
How they spoke peace and comfort to my soul,
And bade me with courage forward go

And struggle bravely onward to the goal.
There are some that no future may fulfil;
There are some that are buried in the past;
But some there are burning brightly still,

That will burn but the brighter to the last.

I

THE SOLITARY VIOLET.

N a lonely place a violet grew,

Deep hidden in a wood

d;

And all alone it budded and blew,

Unheeded around its fragrance threw,

In secret solitude.

The winds that through the woodland ride Lightly lingered there ;

And the gentle dews of eventide

Spread its sweetness far and wide

Upon the freshened air.

But the violet hung its lovely head,

Weary with its lot;

For unknown to man its scent was shed,

And as yet no sound of human tread

Had waked the quiet spot.

Till, bidding all around farewell,
It heaved one parting sigh ;

And, though the sunbeams softly fell,
And the breezes whispered through the dell,
It laid it down to die.

But, just as the violet breathed its last,
And drooped its head in death,
A wanderer that way there passed,
And he caught the odour upward cast
From the flower's dying breath.

He wore the look of one opprest

With sorrow and with care;

For, with sad brow and aching breast,
He roamed about in search of rest,
Nor found it anywhere.

But, with that flow'ret's scent, there seems
Back on his thoughts to roll

The light of childhood's happy dreams;
And hope once more unclouded beams
Upon his troubled soul.

The faded bloom of that violet fair

Away with him he bore,

And, with a heart unstained with care,
Freed from the trammels of despair,

Cherished it evermore.