that some peculiar consecration is attendant upon the Christian Sabbath.

In a wild and secluded spot, shut in by surrounding hills, and occupying the shore of a small lake, so very small it scarcely merited the name, was collected a congregation of worshippers, to the number of nearly two hundred. The rich and interwoven foliage of the trees formed their canopy, and the mossy banks afforded easy and convenient seats. The services were performed quietly and devoutly. The knees bowed upon the verdant sod, the clasped and elevated hands, the meekly imploring eyes, were but the visible expressions of a deep and fervent adoration. The rich, exulting harmonies that rung through the woodland bespoke a high and victorious faith. The tones of the uplifted prayer were solemn and earnest, poured out from a heart that had no polluted or frozen fountains, but whose wellsprings of love lay at the very root of its being.

At the close of the usual services, the minister walked forth from his sylvan desk, and stood upon the shore of the lake. Immediately from among the crowd followed a young maiden, leaning upon the arm of her lover. They stopped upon a small mound that sloped down from the trunk of a spreading maple. The maiden was

AUTUMN.

BY MRS. SARAH BROUGHTON.

THE autumn breeze sighs fitfully the forest boughs among; Its harplike breathings rise, and swell, and deepen into

song:

Not joyous as the strains that rang out from each sylvan

dell,

When the spirit bloom and beauty cast o'er the earth its

spell.

But low and mournful are the notes that rise upon the

gale,

As insect voices murmuring, send up the feeble wail; And the moaning spirit of the blast sings in the bending

spray,

And warblers trill, in plaintive tones, the sad, departing

lay.

With many a melancholy song the woodland cloisters

ring,

Ere for the bland and sunny south the wild birds plume

the wing.

They mourn to leave their nestling bowers, though far in milder climes,

The breeze sighs in the orange boughs, and fans the rustling limes.

The noble monarch of the woods, scathed by the light

ning's glare,

Waves to the gale his naked arms, of all their glories bare; But round the sere and withered trunk the frost-dyed ivy

clings,

To hide the mourful ruin with its fondly twining rings.

So the rich love of woman's heart, that gift of priceless

worth,

Oft twines its strong, its deathless clasp, 'round the frail things of earth,

And when the fearful blight of sin o'er the loved one has

passed,

It still lives on 'mid storm and shade, enduring to the last.

Alas, the glorious summer gifts are fading all away;
The blossoms that we loved to tend are gone to sad decay;
The frost-wind's breath has left a blight like the mildew
of the heart,

When the garnered hopes of many a year like sunset clouds depart.

Yet lovely are the varied hues that nature has put on, Though her rich robes of changeful green, and bright flower-wreaths are gone;

Though the tall, graceful beeches wear the russet tinge of grief,.

The sombre shadows are relieved by the crimson maple leaf.

And high o'er all, in princely pride, towers the dark evergreen,

Fit emblem of the hopes that live when fades earth's loveliest scene:

Though winter's bleaching tempests rave, the landscape to deform,

The pine tree's lordly plumes, still bright, wave proudly 'mid the storm.

Thus when the wintry storms of time have swept our landscape drear,

And the flowers that formed love's beauteous wreath are faded all and sere,

Hope's plant, perennial in the breast, tells of a brighter

home,

Of vernal fields, and living streams, where storm and blight ne'er come.

And though our feeble bark were wrecked on sorrow's weltering wave,

And all the yearning heart held dear were garnered in

the grave,

Still faith, white-pinioned seraph, waves her wand of rainbow sheen,

And points, through golden vistas, to the bowers of fadeless green.

MOUNT AUBURN.

BY MISS S. C. EDGARTON.

How still they sleep, the beautiful and blest,
In their bright, shadowy beds! How sweet the rest
That follows the hard turmoil of earth's years!
From their long pilgrimage of woes and tears
They have come home at last. Meekly they sped
To reach the welcome city of the dead,

And patiently they struggled through the waste
Of human life. But now they freely taste
The pure, sweet fountains and the cooling breath
Of the oasis, peaceful, holy death.

By whom has this bright solitude been felt
A dreary place? By him who long hath dwelt
In living solitudes, 'mid crowds and mirth;

Whose heart is lone and dark, and wrapped in earth,

Having no holy throngs of seraphim

Forever round it, with their low, soft hymn,

Or gentle converse, making weariness

Itself a rest, and woe but love's caress.

But to the pure in heart, the blest and good,
Whose spirits are by angel-voices wooed,
Who dwell with holy visiters from heaven,
And wear the snow-white vesture they have given,
To such, -O! is not this the long-sought shrine