I saw, where'er the Old Man trod,
The grass grow paler 'neath his feet,
And the dewy blossoms on the sod
Bowed down his step to greet.

But the Hunter, as in wantonness,

Would seize the flowers in fullest bloom, And fling them down, and onwards press, New treasures to consume.

The pair passed on through many lands,
Each with his own peculiar power,
And something 'neath their vengeful hands
Was changed in every hour.

The cruel Hunter struck the child,
Even at his mother's heaving breast;
And laid the maiden, young and mild,
Down in her lasting rest.

But the Old Man only laid his hand
Upon the rocks, the trees, the stone,
And at that voiceless, still command,

They crumbled, and were gone.

He touched the fair and stately hall,
And ivy did its sides emboss;

He touched the stone by the waterfall,
And o'er it crept the moss;

And he touched the man, and his hair grew grey;
And then the Hunter reined his speed,
And for the Pilgrim's step would stay
To share the fatal deed.

The Hunter struck a poet down,

Who sung with all youth's early fire; The Pilgrim only touched his crown, And his impassioned lyre.

The first with Fame's own light had shone,
The last had Love on every string;
But lo! the laurel wreath was gone!
And the chords were mouldering!

I wept to see that pilgrim pair,

I saddened as I watched their course,
Carrying such sorrow everywhere,
With such resistless force.

But there was one most lovely form
They touched in vain; however rough
Might be the stroke, she braved the storm,
Though oft her veil fell off.

Though oft her garment might be changed, Still was her eye undimmed and bright; Still round and round the world it ranged, With an undying light.

And I rejoiced that maid to see-
To think that one could still abide
Unharmed amidst the misery

That fell on all beside.

Still stood she there, in changeless prime,
And on her brow was written-Faith;
They called the fatal Pilgrim-Time;
The Hunter's name was-Death.

M. A. BROWNE.

XVI.-TIME.

AMONG the fathomless things about us, and within us, is the continuity of Time. This

gives to Life one of its most solemn aspects. We may think to ourselves, "Would that there could be some halting-place in Life, where we could stay collecting our minds, and see the world drift by us!" But no.Even while you read this, you are not pausing to read it. As one of the great French preachers, I think, says, "We are embarked upon a stream, each in his own little boat, which must move uniformly onwards, till it ceases to move at all. It is a stream that knows no haste, no rest- -a boat that knows no haven but one."

FRIENDS IN COUNCIL.

XVII.

ALTA è la notte, non han gli astri velo;
Ogni animal da tutte cure ha posa ;

Giace senz' onda il mar; non trema stelo;
Han pace terra e ciel . . . dorme ogni cosa.
Tu a bruno, ha crin disciolto, e lacrimosa,
Tu vegli, orbata Madre, e guardi al cielo,

Chiamando in rotta voce lamentosa

Un figlio spento com' è un fior dal gelo. Donna, la stella in che 'l tuo ciglio è fiso

Pel mistico fulgor che t' have absorta, È il tuo fanciul, ch' è stella in Paradiso!

Donna, l'angelic' aura che respiri

È il tuo fanciul, che al labbro tuo l' apporta È un sospir ch' ei risponde ai tuoi sospiri !

CARLO PEPOLI.

XVIII. TIE THREE VOICES.

WHAT saith the Past to thee?-Weep!

Truth is departed;

Beauty hath died like the dream of a sleep,
Love is faint-hearted.

Trifles of sense, the profoundly unreal,
Scare from our spirits God's holy ideal-
So, as a funeral knell, slowly and deep,
So tolls the Past to thee-Weep!

How speaks the Present hour?-Act!
Walk, upward glancing;