AT EASTER-TIDE.

At Easter-tide, when lilies blow
For font and altar, virgin things,
When spikes of maple scarlet show,

And thin clouds white as angel's wings,
While some fresh voice the message flings-
"The Lord is risen!"-from long ago
Rise purified the tombèd Springs
At Easter-tide, when lilies blow.

Oh, when the hallowed hour not brings
Those gloried ghosts, whose brows we know,
Nor I o'er change and distance throw
In midnight prayer an arm that clings,
Ah then, the deep-toned bell that rings

I shall not hear, nor hear whatso

The clear young voice triumphant sings, At Easter-tide, when lilies blow!

-Helen Gray Cone.

Let mystery have its place in you; do not be always turning up your whole soil with the ploughshare of self-examination, but leave a little fallow corner in your heart ready for any seed the winds may bring, and reserve a nook of shadow for the passing bird; keep a place in your heart for the unexpected guest, an altar for the unknown God. Then if a bird sing among your branches, do not be too eager to tame it. If you are conscious of something new-thought or feeling-wakening in the depths of your being, do not be in a hurry to let in light upon it, to look at it; let the springing germ have the protection of being forgotten, hedge it round with quiet, and do not break in upon its darkness; let it take shape and grow, and not a word of your happiness to anyone!

-Amiel's Journal.

Ah, how wonderful is the advent of the Spring!-the great annual miracle of the blossoming of Aaron's rod, repeated on myriads and myriads of branches !-the gentle progression and growth of herbs, flowers, trees,-gentle and yet irrepressible, which no force can stay, no violence restrain, like love, that wins its way and cannot be withstood by any human power, because itself is divine power. If Spring came but once a century, instead of once a year, or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake, and not in silence, what wonder and expectation would there be in all hearts to behold the miraculous change!

-Longfellow.

I saw wild anemones, and heard birds piping on the boughs; the delicate sunshine of the north was sifting through them, and dropping about on the grass as lightly as if it felt that it was taking a liberty. Down in a hollow, gleaming white in the creases between cushions of moss, I saw wandering patches of snow, for the spring had been late, and warm weather had come on suddenly.

-Jean Inglelow.