NOVEMBER.

"THE human mortals want their winter here." -Midsummer Night's Dream.

WILL the leaves never fall?

These rotting remnants of a long-past spring;
Adroop along th' unfruited garden-wall,
Aflaunt gold-gauded on the poplar tall,
In death-dews glistering:
Will the leaves never fall?

Will the frost never come?

The kindly frost that, with its healthful sting,
Probes to the quick dull autumn's dross and scum,
And strikes drear winds and fretting waters dumb,
With cruel kindly sting:
Will the frost never come?

ON HEARING A LARK SING.

A-WAND RING, Wrapt in thought, one day,
Beneath a sunny sky,

I heard a lark, beseeming gay,
Sing witchingly on high.

I gazed, I earnest gazed on high,
But never could I see
The bird which in the azure sky
Sang out so merrily.

Emblem of Christian faith thou art,
O gentle lark, I ween;
Thy dulcet strains do charm my heart,
While thou art all unseen.

And gazing up where all is fair,

In sooth my soul was cheered:
When in the clear, clear azure sky,
The lark's gay voice I heard.

And I shall in the future time
Think often of the day,

When by a bird to Heaven's clime,
My thoughts were borne away.
-Sixpenny Magazine.

SOME may remember the lines of John Leyden "To an Indian Gold Coin," written as he lay dying in India, whither he had gone to make his fortune.

"Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams
Of Teviot loved while still a child;
Of castled rocks stupendous piled
By Esk or Eden's classic wave,

Where loves of youth and friendship smiled Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade! The perished bliss of youth's first prime, That once so bright on fancy played,

Revives no more in after time.

Far from my sacred natal clime I haste to an untimely grave;

The daring thoughts that soared sublime
Are sunk in ocean's southern wave.

Slave of the mine, thy yellow light
Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear
A gentle vision comes by night

My lonely widowed heart to cheer:
Her eyes are dim with many a tear,
That once were guiding stars to mine:
Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!
I cannot bear to see thee shine.

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,
I left a heart that loved me true!

I crossed the tedious ocean wave,
To roam in climes unkind and new.
The cold wind of the stranger blew
Chill on my withered heart; the grave,
Dark and untimely, met my view,
And all for thee, vile yellow slave."
-Sunday Magazine.

TRODDEN FLOWERS.

THERE are some hearts, that, like the loving vine, Cling to unkindly rocks and ruined towers,

Spirits that suffer and do not repine

Patient and sweet as lowly trodden flowers That from the passers' heel arise,

And bring back odorous breath instead of sighs. But there are other hearts that will not feel

The lonely love that haunts their eyes and

ears;

That wound fond faith with anger worse than steel;

And out of pity's spring draw idle tears. O Nature! shall it ever be thy will

Ill things with good to mingle, good with ill?

Why should the heavy foot of sorrow press

The willing heart of uncomplaining loveMeet charity that shrinks not from distress,

Gentleness, loth her tyrants to reprove? Though virtue weep forever and lament, Will one hard heart turn to her and relent?

Why should the reed be broken that will bend; And they that dry the tears in others' eyes, Feel their own anguish swelling without end, Their summer darkened with the smoke of

DREAMS OF THE PAST.

As we wandered alone where the moonlight

reposes,

And the wind o'er the ripple is tuneful and sweet,

When the stars glitter out as the day flower closes,

And the night-bird and dew-drop are all that we meet;

Oh! then, when the warm flush of thought is unsealing

The bonds that a cold world too often keeps fast,

We shall find that the deepest and dearest of feeling

Is pouring its tide in a dream of the past. Oh! who shall have travelled through life's misty morning,

Forgetting all way-marks that rose on their

track?

Though the things we loved then had maturity's scorning,

Though we cast them behind, yet we like to

look back.

Though the present may charm us with magical numbers,

And lull the rapt spirit, entrancing it fast, Yet 'tis rarely the heart is so sound in its slumbers,

As to rest without mingling some dream the past.

AN ATHENIAN STORY.

IN Athens, ere its sun of fame had set,
Amidst pomp and show the gazing crowds were
met,

Intent forever upon something new,
The mimic wonders of the stage to view.
So here the wide extended circus spreads
In gathered ranks its sea of living heads;
Ranged in close order, rising row on row,
The void arena claims the space below.
The seats were filled; but ere the show began,
A stranger entered-'twas an aged man;
Awhile he sought a place with aspect mild:
The polished young Athenians sat and smiled,
Eyed his confusion with a sidelong glance,
But kept their seats, nor rose on his advance.
for a burning blush of deeper hue
To mark the shame of that self-glorious crew;
How poor the produce of fair Learning's tree,
That bears no fruits of sweet humility!
The growth of arts and sciences how vain
In hearts that feel not for another's pain!

Not so the Spartan youth, whose simple school
Instilled the plain but salutary rule
Of kindness, and whose honest souls preferred
Truth to display-performance to a word.
These Spartan youths had their appointed place,
Apart from the Athenians, distinguished race,
And rose with one accord, intent to prove
To honored age their duty and their love;
Nor did a Spartan youth his seat resume
Till the old man found due and fitting room.

Then came the sentence of reproof and praise,
Stamped with the sternness of the ancient days;
For, standing full amid the assembled crowd,
The venerable stranger cried aloud:

"The Athenians learn their duty well, but lo!
The Spartans practice what the Athenians know."
The words were good, and in a virtuous cause;
They justly earned a nation's glad applause;
But we have surer words of precept given

In God's own book; the word that came from heaven

Where there's most of faith and loving, And there's least of doubt and strife;

Ever, ever, ever, ever

Settling by Time's azure river,

There are four little turf-covered mounds in a row, Near the gray south wall, where the violets blow, In the churchyard corner green.

Four vacant seats at our fireside,

realms have drifted;

Thus do we.

Valiant brothers, starward wandering,
Shall we join the mournful sages,

Who see death forever o'er them-
Ever 'mid his shadows pondering ?—
What! throughout the sunny ages?
Never, never, never, never!

We will hold this side the river, They may rear their gloomy gods upon the other and adore them

But not we.

Jovial brothers, tombward treading,
Shall we cheer our souls divine

On this rocky thirsty road

Where the bitter streams are shedding?—

While there glows a sweeter flood?--

Ha ha ha!-oh never, never!

Ours the grape tree of life's river;

That "are not "-yet have been.

No pattering footsteps fall on our ear,
No lisping prattle of music clear,

To the loving parent's heart;
But, dear, though we may not these forget,
We have each our choicest blessing yet-
Have each in the other part.

Thy spirit holy and calm and true,
Looketh steadily out of its casements of blue
From the dear head on my breast;
Like a mountain pearl in the torrent-flow,
When the troubled waters come and go,

And the starved soul seeketh rest.

There are dark spots, love, on the bright, bright

sun;

Well, well, it must be so-and I for one
Would not have it otherwise;

For we could not joy in the blessed light
Of the golden dawn if there were no-night,
No clouds in our summer skies.

draughts of upas wine

But not we.

BY OUR HEARTH.

DRAW close to the fire, my own true wife:
Thyself the light of my working-life—

Of my little world the sun.

A crust, my girl, may be hard to gain,
But 'tis sweeter if it be cut in twain

Than if it be eaten by one.

We have seen some troubles, and it may be
They have drawn the bonds betwixt me and thee
That were close, yet closer still.

Nay, never heed me-it is not grief:
When the charged heart wrestleth long for relief
The responsive eyes will fill.

(Sometimes the weak may help them along), But if on our chosen way,

We can hand in hand together go,

What care we if all the world should know That it is not always day?

-ASTLEY H. BALDWIN, Fraser's.

In her soft and trembling accents
She has entrance sought in vain:
Ah! those cruel gates are silent,
Though she prays again, again;
For one thought seems ever burning
In her fevered childish brain:
Mother said that she was going,
And that I too must go,
Through the gates of that far country;
And it must be here, I know:
For all there is warmth and gladness,
And all here is grief and sadness,
And my heart is aching so.

"And she said, for me my Saviour

Washed a robe all white from sin: So that, torn and soiled and bleeding,

Even I might entrance win:
But, ah me! He will not hear me,
Nor the angels bright come near me;
Mother, mother, take me in!"

But the dark night gave no answer
To the voice of child's despair;
Till at last the porter opening
At that oft-repeated prayer,
In rough and cruel accents

Bade the child not linger there.

On she wandered, no one caring

Where she dragged her weary feet, All along the stony roadside

Through the city's crowded street, Where perchance strange words of kindness The forsaken child would greet.

But too late all earthly comfort;
Need of earthly care is o'er;
For the broken heart is passing

Swiftly to that happy shore,
Where the pearly gates are open,
Blessed be God, for evermore.

There all care and grief forgotten,
Safe as on her mother's breast;

If the way was rough and toilsome,
Oh how sweet the early rest
Within the endless glory,
As in the old old story,

In the arms of Jesus blest!

SONG FOR THE NEW YEAR.

OLD Time has turned another page

Of eternity and truth;

He reads with a warning voice to age,
And whispers a lesson to youth.
A year has fled o'er heart and head
Since last the yule log burnt;
And we have a task to closely ask,

What the bosom and brain have learnt?
Oh! let us hope that our sands have run
With wisdom's precious grains :
Oh! may we find that our hands have done
Some work of glorious pains.

Then a welcome and cheer to the merry new year,
While the holly gleams above us;
With a pardon for the foes who hate,
And a prayer for those who love us.

We may have seen some loved ones pass
To the land of hallowed rest;

We may miss the glow of an honest brow
And the warmth of a friendly breast:
But if we nursed them while on earth,
With hearts all true and kind,
Will their spirits blame the sinless mirth
Of those true hearts left behind?
No, no! it were not well or wise
To mourn with endless pain;

There's a better world beyond the skies,
Where the good shall meet again.

BRIEF LITERARY NOTICES.

Le Rámáyana, Poème Sanscrit de Valmiki ; traduit en Français par H. FAUCHE. Paris: Lacroix. M. Hippolyte Fauche is not only one of the best Sanscrit scholars of the present day, but is also a man of indomitable energy and of extraordinary devotion to the cause of learning. What publishers, even the most enthusiastic, would venture on giving to the world a poem like the Mahábhárata, which, when finished, will comprise no less than fifteen octavo volumes? Yet the enterprise which no bookseller would be bold enough to attempt, M. Fauche has begun on his own responsibility. There are still, he thinks, Frenchmen capable of making pecuniary sacrifices for the cause of Oriental literature, and, even among the vast majority of those who know nothing whatever about Sanscrit or Brahminical traditions, many may be induced to support an undertaking which is at all events disinterested. In the meanwhile, M. Fauche presents us with a couple of duodecimos containing a French version of the Rámáyana. This poem, though of considerable length, does not reach to the proportions of the Mahabharata, and readers who may be deterred by the 100,000 glokás of the latter may nevertheless wish to make acquaintance with the epics of the Hindús, and therefore gather up courage for the purpose of mastering the beauties of the former. M. Fauche's translation is excellent, being alike accurate and elegant, and it would be difficult for the uninitiated to select a better guide in their study of the Rámáyana; but we think that a preface, some notes, and a copious index were absolutely indispensable in a work of this character, and we regret that M. Fauche should not have added them. Very probably this would have entailed the publication of a third volume, but we think that few would grudge the extra expense required to render the perusal of the Rámáyana both interesting and profitable. We cannot admit that the very meagre index which terminates the fourth volume is of any real use, and surely, if the cheapest school editions of the Greek and Latin classics are not deemed complete without some kind of critical

While the holly gleams above us;

With a pardon for the foes who hate,

And a prayer for those who love us.

doubly necessary in the case of a work like Valmiki's epic. We hope M. Fauche may be induced to publish a supplement of elucidations and