This poem, as well as all of Emily Bronte's verses, is tinged with the deepest melancholy-the sorrow which both Charlotte and Emily Bronte experienced, and which has set them apart in the world of letters from those who do not feel so deeply the emotions of which they write.

Cold in the earth-and the deep snow piled above thee,
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!

Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,

Sever'd at last by Time's all severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains, on that northern shore,

Resting their wings where heath and fern leaves cover
Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

Sweet love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world's tide is bearing me along;
Other desires and other hopes beset me,

Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lighten'd up my heaven,

No second morn has ever shown for me;
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But when the days of golden dreams had perish'd, And even despair was powerless to destroy; Then did I learn how existence could be cherish'd Strengthen'd, and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion-
Wean'd my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,

Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed,
And though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea;
Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled,

Though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof,
There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city

of God,

The holy place of the tabernacles of the most High.
God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved;

God shall help her, and that right early.

The heathen raged, the kingdoms were moved;
He uttered his voice, the earth melted.

The Lord of Hosts is with us;

The God of Jacob is our refuge.

Come, behold the works of the Lord,

What desolations he hath made in the earth,

He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth;
He breaketh the bow, and cutteth the spear in sunder;

He burneth the chariot in the fire.

Be still and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the heathen,
I will be exalted in the earth.
The Lord of Hosts is with us;
The God of Jacob is our refuge.

FOR ALL THESE.

BY JULIET WILBOR TOMPKINS.

I thank thee, Lord, that I am straight and strong,
With wit to work and hope to keep me brave;
That two score years, unfathomed, still belong
To the allotted life thy bounty gave.

I thank thee that the sight of sunlit lands

And dipping hills, the breath of evening grass— That wet, dark rocks and flowers in my hands Can give me daily gladness as I pass.

I thank thee that I love the things of earth-
Ripe fruits and laughter lying down to sleep,
The shine of lighted towns, the graver worth
Of beating human hearts that laugh and weep.

I thank thee that as yet I need not know,

Yet need not fear, the mystery of the end;

But more than all, and though all these should go

Dear Lord, this on my knees!-I thank thee for my friend.

RUTHLESS TIME.

BY WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
(From "Troilus and Cressida.")

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,
Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,

A great sized monster of ingratitudes;

Those scraps are good deeds past; which are devour'd

As fast as they are made, forgot as soon

As done: perseverance, dear my lord,

Keeps honor bright; to have done is to hang

Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail

In monumental mockery. Take th' instant way;
For honor travels in a straight so narrow,

Where one but goes abreast; keep, then, the path;
For emulation hath a thousand sons,

That one by one pursue: if you give way,
Or hedge aside from the direct forthright,
Like to an enter'd tide, they all rush by
And leave you hindmost;

Or like a gallant horse fallen in first rank,
Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,
O'errun and trampled on.