We sit and pass the chilly night,
The interest never jading;
And tell how life is but a day

Made up of shade and shining,
Till childhood's memories round us play

Like woodbines gently twining:

And then our hearts beat merrily,

Without a shade of sorrow;

And every one sings cheerily,

And hopes a bright to-morrow.

THE TWO MEETINGS.

WE met, when her spirit was blithesome and young,
And the hope of her heart was romantic and strong,
When a silvery tinkle rang out as she spoke,
And a new cherub joy with each moment awoke ;
We met where the wild thyme empurpled the moor,
And the foxglove and heather-bloom tinted it o'er;
And we played with the harebell that danced by our side,
And lovingly looked while we silently sighed.
In her hand a rich posy of beauties she bore,
Composed of a score of sweet roses, or more;
The poppy was there with its petals on fire,
And the white-vestured lily, and woodbine, and briar;
A ray of rich light was adorning her hair,

As if a fond sunbeam in love lingered there;

And the radiance that gleamed from her azure-dipt eyes,

Told an eloquent story of summer-lit skies.

We met once again, but the beautiful maid

By the cold hand of death in her coffin was laid.
Her spirit had gone, but she smiled in her shroud,—

So suns after setting oft brighten a cloud.

THE CHANT OF LIFE.

MERRILY, merrily goes the world,

Merrily, merrily;

Merrily goes with a lightsome bound,
Giving a loud and joyous sound,

Cheerily, cheerily.

Hark! how the teeming peoples sing;
Come, let us make the blue skies ring;

Earth is a golden treasure hoard,
And every day is a banquet board;
Merrily goes the old world round,

Merrily, merrily.

Heavily, heavily moves the world,
Heavily, heavily:

Listen, O earth, thy mourners sing,

The Angel of Death is on the wing,

Gloomily, gloomily.

The pride of our homes is stricken low,

The rose that was red is white as snow;

Slowly the weepers come and go,

Singing, "The earth is a place of woe!"
Woefully, woefully.

Mournfully, mournfully glooms thesky,

Mournfully, mournfully;

Mournfully troop the black clouds by,

Mournfully, mournfully.

Listen, O list to the weeper's wail,
"When shall the Angel of Life prevail ?
Earth thou art naught but a charnel hole,
A deep, dark prison-house of the soul."
Mournfully, mournfully glooms the sky,
Mournfully, mournfully.

Merrily let the old world ring,

Merrily, merrily;

The dead ones are buried, the living sing,

Merrily, merrily;

""Tis well to be sad when death is here,

But sadness should go with the dead one's bier;

Is not the earth a treasure hoard,

And every day a banquet board?"

Merrily let the old world ring,

Merrily, merrily.

THE RURAL POSTMAN.

O, THE postman's is as pleasant a life

As any one's, I trow;

For day by day he wendeth his way,

Where a thousand wildlings grow.

He marketh the date of the snowdrop's birth,
And knows when the time is near

For white scented violets to gladden the earth,
And sweet primrose groups t' appear.

He can show you the spot where the hyacinth wild
Hangs out her bell blossoms o' blue;

And tell where the celandine's bright-eyed child

Fills her chalice with honey dew.

The purple-dyed violet, the hawthorn and sloe,
The creepers that trail in the lane,

The dragon, the daisy, and clover-rose, too,

And buttercups gilding the plain ;

The foxglove, the robert, the gorse, and the thyme, The heather and broom on the moor,

And the sweet honeysuckle that loveth to climb

The arch of the cottager's door.