But when God's great archer his supple bow draws,
And showers his bright arrows to far-distant lands,
The shafts that his quiver protected from flaws

Bear but blessings and joys from his life-giving hands.

O hand of the bowman! the point may be true,

And yet swerve from the mark that stands clear in the light; The bolt seeming faulty, why give it its due,

Try to straighten its feathers before it takes flight.

Stet domus 'fortúna! May high boys and low

Strike well home to the end their best hopes would attain ; May hands that direct, when unbending the bow,

Find the arrows they launched were not speeded in vain.

THE Day at war beyond the western hills,
Driven from the pearly portals of the east,
Sinks in a glowing stream of ruby rills-
The vanquished warrior's blood. Battle has ceased,
And ever denser where the sky was bright,

Dusk, rolling, lurid bands of purple clouds

Close on his glorious breastplate's amber light,

And wrap him round with mists and shadowy shrouds.
Then creeps a spying star into the field,

The pallid moon peeps faintly forth to smile;
More timid orbs, grown bold, forget to yield-
Their foe defeated—and the world the while
Mourns all-bedewed with tears inglorious;
Fair Day is dead-dire Night victorious.

LITTLE bird so sweetly singing,

On yon budding elm-spray swinging, Do the thoughts of wintry days Never sadden your light lays? Merry bird, I pray thee tell me.

Fragrant flower, so brightly blowing, 'Neath the ferny hedge-row growing, Dream'st thou not of icy showers, Sometimes, in those sunny bowers? Tender floweret-frost will fell thee.

"I am happy while I'm singing,"

Trilled the bird. "Why sad thoughts bringing?"

Breathed the floweret-"Should I sigh

While the sun is in the sky?

Silly elf, let well be-well be."

THE golden dawn breaks o'er the blue-crested mountain, The star of the morning gróws pale in the sky;

I have waited-how long!--by the brink of the fountain, For, loved one, the hour of our parting draws nigh.

Thou knowest, thou knowest, how fain would I linger,
Expecting thy footsteps from eve until morn;

But cruel Fate beckons with merciless finger,
To tear me away from thee, sad and forlorn.

Farewell! and remember the words I have spoken,
And cherish my memory warm in thy breast;
The time will arrive when the spell shall be broken,
For absence is only of true-love the test.