Both may yet, world-disappointed,
This lost hour of love recall,——

It is well we cannot see

What the end shall be.

When the altar of religion

Greets the expectant bridal pair, And the vow that lasts till dying Vibrates on the sacred air; When man's lavish protestations Doubts of after-change defy, Comforting the frailer spirit

Bound his servitor for aye;

When beneath love's silver moonbeams
Many rocks in shadow sleep,
Undiscovered, till possession

Shows the danger of the deep,—

It is well we cannot see
What the end shall be.

Whatsoever is beginning,

That is wrought by human skill; Every daring emanation

Of the mind's ambitious will; Every first impulse of passion, Gush of love or twinge of hate; Every launch upon the waters Wide-horizoned by our fate; Every venture in the chances

Of life's sad, oft desperate game,
Whatsoever be our motive,
Whatsoever be our aim,—

It is well we cannot see
What the end shall be.

ANONYMOUS.

The Two Worlds.

Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we strain,
Whose magic joys we shall not see again;

Bright haze of morning veils its glimmering shore.
Ah, truly breathed we there

Intoxicating air

Glad were our hearts in that sweet realm of

Nevermore.

The lover there drank her delicious breath
Whose love has yielded since to change or death;
The mother kissed her child, whose days are o'er.
Alas! too soon have fled

The irreclaimable dead:

We see them-visions strange-amid the
Nevermore.

The merrysome maiden used to sing

The brown, brown hair that once was wont to cling To temples long clay-cold: to the very core They strike our weary hearts,

As some vexed memory starts

From that long faded land-the realm of
Nevermore.

It is perpetual summer there. But here
Sadly may we remember rivers clear,

And harebells quivering on the meadow-floor.
For brighter bells and bluer,

For tenderer hearts and truer

People that happy land-the realm of
Nevermore.

Upon the frontier of this shadowy land

We pilgrims of eternal sorrow stand:

What realm lies forward, with its happier store

Of forests green and deep,

Of valleys hushed in sleep,

And lakes most peaceful? 'T is the land of
Evermore.

Very far off its marble cities seem-
Very far off-beyond our sensual dream—

Its woods, unruffled by the wild wind's roar;
Yet does the turbulent surge

Howl on its very verge.

One moment-and we breathe within the
Evermore.

They whom we loved and lost so long ago

Dwell in those cities, far from mortal wo

Haunt those fresh woodlands, whence sweet carolings

soar.

Eternal peace have they;

God wipes their tears away:

They drink that river of life which flows from
Evermore.

Thither we hasten through these regions dim,

But, lo, the wide wings of the Seraphim

Shine in the sunset! On that joyous shore
Our lightened hearts shall know

The life of long ago:

The sorrow-burdened past shall fade for

Evermore.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

Rain on the Roof.

WHEN the humid shadows hover

Over all the starry spheres,
And the melancholy darkness
Gently weeps in rainy tears,

What a bliss to press the pillow
Of a cottage-chamber bed
And to listen to the patter

Of the soft rain overhead!

Every tinkle on the shingles
Has an echo in the heart;
And a thousand dreamy fancies
Into busy being start,

And a thousand recollections

Weave their air-threads into woof,

As I listen to the patter

Of the rain upon the roof.

Now in memory comes my mother,
As she used long years agone,
To regard the darling dreamers
Ere she left them till the dawn:
O! I see her leaning o'er me,
As I list to this refrain
Which is played upon the shingles
By the patter of the rain.

Then my little seraph sister,

With her wings and waving hair, And her star-eyed cherub brotherA serene angelic pair !— Glide around my wakeful pillow, With their praise or mild reproof,

As I listen to the murmur

Of the soft rain on the roof.

And another comes, to thrill me
With her eyes' delicious blue;
And I mind not, musing on her,

That her heart was all untrue:

I remember but to love her

With a passion kin to pain,

And my heart's quick pulses vibrate
To the patter of the rain.

Art hath naught of tone or cadence
That can work with such a spell
In the soul's mysterious fountains,
Whence the tears of rapture well,
As that melody of nature,

That subdued, subduing strain
Which is played upon the shingles
By the patter of the rain.

Willie Winkie.

COATES KINNEY.

WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town,
Up-stairs and doon-stairs, in his nicht-gown,
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock,

"Are the weans in their bed?-for it 's now ten o'clock."

Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben?

The cat 's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen,

The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep; But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep.

Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue! glow'rin' like the moon,
Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon,

Rumblin' tumblin' roun' about, crowin' like a cock,
Skirlin' like a kenna-what--wauknin' sleepin' folk.

Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean 's in a creel!
Waumblin' aff a body's knee like a vera eel,

Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums,—
Hey, Willie Winkie!-See, there he comes!

Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean,

A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane,
That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he 'll close an ee;
But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.
WILLIAM MILLER.