THE RECOLLECTION.

JE wandered to the pine-forest

WE

1;

That skirts the ocean's foam The lightest wind was in its nest,

The tempest in its home.

The whispering waves were half asleep,

The clouds were gone to play,

And on the bosom of the deep
The smile of heaven lay;

It seemed as if the hour were one

Sent from beyond the skies,

Which scattered from above the sun

A light of paradise.

We paused beside the pools that lie

Under the forest-bough,

Each seemed as 'twere a little sky
Gulfed in a world below:

A firmament of purple light

Which in the dark earth lay,

More boundless than the depth of night,

And purer than the day

In which the lovely forests grew

As in the upper air,

More perfect both in shape and hue

Than any spreading there.

There lay the glade and neighboring lawn,

And through the dark green wood

The white sun twinkling like the dawn

Out of a speckled cloud.

Sweet views, which in our world above

Can never well be seen,

Were imaged by the water's love

SWE

From babbling waterfalls

In meadows where the downy seeds are flying;
And soft the breezes blow,

And eddying come and go,

In faded gardens where the rose is dying.

Among the stubbled corn

The blithe quail pipes at morn,
The merry partridge drums in hidden places;
And glittering insects gleam

Above the reedy stream

Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces.

At eve, cool shadows fall

Across the garden wall,

And on the clustered grapes to purple turning;
And pearly vapors lie

Along the eastern sky,

Where the broad harvest moon is redly burning.

Ah, soon on field and hill

The winds shall whistle chill,

And patriarch swallows call their flocks together, To fly from frost and snow,

And seek for lands where blow

The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather.

The pollen-dusted bees
Search for the honey-lees

That linger in the last flowers of September;
While plaintive mourning doves

Coo sadly to their loves

Of the dead summer they so well remember.

The cricket chirps all day,

"O fairest Summer, stay!"

The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning; The wildfowl fly afar

Above the foamy bar,

And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning.

- George Arnold.

A WILD ROSE IN SEPTEMBER.

O

WILD red rose, what spell has stayed
Till now thy summer of delights?

Where hid the south wind when he laid

His heart on thine these autumn nights?

At sight of thee, and two hearts share
All thou and thy south wind can know
Of sunshine in this autumn air.

O sweet wild rose! O strong south wind
The sunny roadside asks no reasons
Why we such secret summer find,
Forgetting calendars and seasons!

Alas! red rose, thy petals wilt;

Our loving hands tend thee in vain ;
Our thoughtless touch seems like a guilt,
Ah, could we make thee live again!

Yet joy, wild rose! Be glad, south wind!
Immortal wind! immortal rose!

Ye shall live on, in two hearts shrined,
With secrets which no words disclose.

- Helen Hunt Jackson.

THE SWEETBRIER.

UR sweet, autumnal western-scented wind

OUR Sweet; autors none so sweet a flower,

In all the blooming waste it left behind,
As that the Sweetbrier yields it; and the shower.

Wets not a rose that buds in beauty's bower
One half so lovely ;- yet it grows along

The poor girl's pathway, by the poor man's door,
Such are the simple folk it dwells among;
And humble as the bud, so humble be the song.

I love it, for it takes its untouched stand,
Not in the vase that sculptors decorate;
Its sweetness all is of my native land;
And e'en its fragrant leaf has not its mate
Among the perfumes which the rich and great
Buy from the odors of the spicy East.

You love your flowers and plants; and will you hate The little four-leaved rose that I, love best,

That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest?

-John G. C. Brainard.

TO THE CHRYSANTHEMUM.

WAN

JAN brightener of the fading year,
Chrysanthemum ;

Rough teller of the winter near,

Chrysanthemum;

Gray low-hung skies and woodlands sere,
Wet leaf-strown ways with thee appear,
Yet well I love to see thee here,

Chrysanthemum;

Yes, well I love to see thee here,

Chrysanthemum.

Thou comest when the rose is dead,

Chrysanthemum ;

When pink and lily both have fled,

Chrysanthemum;