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1 iu But HLHl B B S S WMw t ! § 8 ® « : . - j SP i lIl mm i j S S f m m m wm&mmaSmmm' n i n # i i I mm®mmm&£m i ?**;•' , ??Ml w sSS H I M wig1 m y double q u ih ihncM o f m v b e a u t y : IW&lM h i pI ipiS ll'Ji mHwIt t o 1?pt/9pM PI'4, mji : - m\ i !5i^E FROM THE PAST. U This old box that holds the treasures Of my girlhood’s long ago, f have found, where once I hid it, . In the garret quaint and low. Then my eyes were brighter, clearer, .Mot a furrow on my brow, On my hair the sunshine glittered, Where the snows have fallen now. Well—I’ll lift the lid, recalling Dreams, how foolish, yet how fair! A h ! there lies my ring—the token Of love’s glory and dispair. Like a tide flows back upon me All the pain of that sad day, When I hid its golden glimmer, With my love and trust away. How could jealous pride and anger Close my heart against its own ? Shut from out my heart the sunshine, Leaving me to walk alone ? Where is he to-day—my sweetheart ? Ah ! I have not wept for years ; Now the ring briugs back the heart-break. With a rush of tender tears. Yes, the ghosts of dead white roses Rustle iu this paper’s fold ; Once again blue eyes, and bonny, Smile upon me as of o ld ; While he gathers creamy roses, In a cluster sweet fur me, Saying, “ you will not forget me, When I sail the purple sea ?” Dust and ashes are the roses, Dead sea apples, hope and love, Naught but death to be believed in— None to trust but God above. Long ago the sweet light vanished From the blue eyes far from m e; No ! poor lad, i’ll not forget you, Sleeping ’neath the purple sea. From this folded silver paper Falls a tress of sunny brown ; I behold myself a maiden, Blushing, shy, with eyes cast down, While my boyish, dark-eyed lover Vows to live for me alone, Brings as tokens of affection— Apples green—and pears half-grown. *Twas oul' first romance—we parted— Bitter were the tears we shed, Long and dreary seemed the waiting, For the time that we migb t wed. Well, he has a wife and children, Stout he’s grown—and fond of wine, Bald the head whereon this ringlet With its fellows used to aliine. Here are letters that I cherished, From the friends of other days; Some are gone, I know not whither, Down life’s dim and changing ways. Scattered like the leaves in autumn, Drifting, drifting far apart, Some are dust beneath the daises, Some grown proud and cold of heart. Shall I farther look ? No, never ! Peace of years has been in vain ; Memories, like ghosts up-starting, Walk and wring their hands in pain. Gentle eyes gaze out upon me, Tearful as l saw them last, Voices call, and white hands beckon^ From the shadows of tlv~ Past. Why should wild regrets and passions Of my girlhood’ s folded page Come to thrill me with their whispers In hay lonely, sad old age ? Iam groping through life’s twilight, Toward the bright “ land of the leal.** Bitter earth has not a sorrow That sweet heaven cannot heal. ^ C. F. L, W . to thwmi rrE. | -~ * y Yfc Is Co bid th» wakingj world good morning T Ta say arood night vf^uen evening drapes th e ' e ir tli; T o toll with brain and hand for gold and honor, For sake of those beside the household n earth. It Is to guide the steps of little children ; With strong, true.arm to shield the aged head ; To kneel and pray, to twine the bridle rcs3s; To fold away the garments of the dead. It ii to walk abroad when leaves are starting ; To hear the birds sing,—tread the garden path ; To sow the seeds and gather in the harvests ; To look on fields all rich with aftermath ; To feed the hungry, give the cup of water; To break some chain and help some soul go Wa m .! CO To build our castles and sec them vanish ; Fo wonder when our ships will cross the ser. It is to hunger with the heart, and. asking For wine, got gall ; for bread receive a stone; It is to know that somewhere ’neath God's heaven A loving, faithful heart is all one's own, It is to paint, to sing, to carve, and never; Even when patience its fair-best has wrought To find the song, the statue or the picture, • So fair, so true, so perfect as the thought. To live ! It is. to lo ve, to long, to suffer ; To search for truth, to spend our souls for dross; To lose, to win, and sometimes win in losing, And ofttimes find our winning is but loss. TOR smSag&i mBsS&xM! nBEiH ? I f f i l M i Ii B:mHffims ’Ssm&.-fwS msfl A dvance OF Tim e .—T he age of man, we are told, is three-score years and ten. From twenty-five to forty, if the health be good, no material alteration is observed. ?,,om thence to fifty, the change is greater, hifty-five to sixty, the alteration startles, still we are not bowed down. In the earliest periods of our life the body Strengthens and keeps up the mind ; in the latter stages of it the reverse takes place, and the mind keeps up the body ; a formidable duty I this, and keenly felt by loth. Suoh is Time’s I progress1 W- M? HH UK 1 ‘ ’Slip ' ? •. . "if IIHSHHh mmMmVmm K h M f'SieN k iWmWwwmm i - ® HwSbwmm " IIi Jt.