TWILIGHT HOURS.

129

Thou art around us in our peaceful home; And the world calls us forth, and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meet friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set; but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Cwilight Bours.

THIS is the hour, when Memory wakes
Visions of joy that could not last;
This is the hour when Fancy takes
A survey of the past.

She brings before the pensive mind
The hallowed scenes of earlier years,
And friends, who long have been consigned
To silence and to tears.

130

TWILIGHT HOURS.

The few we liked-the one we loved-
A sacred band, come stealing on,
And many a form far hence removed,
And many a pleasure gone.

Friendships, that now in death are hushed,
And young affection's broken chain,
And hopes, that fate too quickly crushed,
In memory bloom again.

Few watch the fading gleams of day,
But muse on hopes as quickly flown;
Tint after tint, they die away,

Till all at last are gone.

This is the hour when Fancy wreaths

Her spell round joys that could not last;
This is the hour when Memory breathes
A sigh to pleasures past.

How shall I build an Altar!

How shall I build an altar
To the Author of my days?
With lips so prone to falter,
How shall I sing His praise?
Thy temples were too lowly,
Oh, great Jerusalem!
The Lord of Hosts too holy,
Too pure, to dwell in them!

Then how shall I, the weakest,
His servant hope to be?
I'll listen when Thou speakest,
Spirit of love, to me;
I'll do thy holy bidding

With unrepining heart;
I'll bear thy gentle chiding,
For merciful Thou art.

I'll bring each angry feeling
A sacrifice to Thee:
I'll ask thy Heavenly healing
Even for my enemy;—

132 PRIZE NOT THE SCENES OF BEAUTY.

So shall I build an altar,

To the Author of my days;
With lips though prone to falter,
So shall I sound His praise.

Oh! Prize not the Scenes of Beauty alone.

BY E. COOK.

OH! prize not the scenes of beauty alone,
And disdain. not the weak and the mean in our

way;

For the world is an engine,—the Architect's own, Where the wheels of the least keep the larger in play.

We may question the locust that darkens the land, And the snake, flinging arrows of death from its

eye;

But remember, they come from the Infinite hand;

And shall man in his littleness dare to ask why?

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 133

O, let us not speak of the "useless or vile:"

They may seem so to us, but be slow to arraign; From the savage wolf's cry to the happy child's smile,

From the mite to the mammoth, there's nothing in vain.

The Keaper and the Flowers.

BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

THERE is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he;
"Have nought but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves;