Save it be angel-footsteps, tending flowers,

Have I so humbly knelt, through long, sad hours, And wildly called on God?

O for a faith more sure,

O for a hope more pure,

To lift my spirit-longings unto Heaven!

For to the soul on earth, no love is given,
Unsullied to endure.

Love's home is not below;

It journeyeth with woe,

But bids it, at the grave, a last farewell:
In heaven, alone, it finds a place to dwell
Untroubled by a foe.

O Father, lift mine eyes

To thy bright, glorious skies,
Where nothing fades, nor passes to decay:
Woo me by smiles of love, gently away

To thy pure Paradise.

S. C. E.

MY GRAVE.

YE need not build a tomb for me:
A little flower will do as well;
Or, if ye wish, a willow tree,

Or wild rose from the brookside dell.

May be, some gentle mark of grief

Will designate my lowly grave;

Yet, any time, I would as lief

The long grass o'er my bed should wave.

No human wish will I control,

About the covering of my rest;

I only hope my weary soul

May sleep upon my Father's breast.

BEAUTY OF MODESTY.

BY A. C, THOMAS.

[From the French.]

To gather of flowers, her daily boquet,
The Sibyl went out in the month of May,
Soon after a lovely shower;

But none could she find, for away, away,
Had they all been called, to spend the day
In the fairies' enchanted bower.

"Ho-ho!" said the Sibyl; "I ween, I ween,
Some plan has the notable fairy queen,

In calling the flowers away;
So I to the bower will instantly go,
For something of wisdom perhaps may flow
From the fairies and flowers to-day."

The Sibyl went forth, and arrived apace,
And there was the whole of the fairy race,
With the queen on her airy throne:

And the flowers were there, and each was drest
In robes she considered the brightest and best
In which she had ever shone.

And each looked up with a winning smile,
And pondered the words of the queen the while

She thus her intention conveyed:

"Whoever is prettiest, as queen of flowers To-day shall be crowned in our fairy bowers, And ever as such obeyed.

"So form a procession, and let me see
Which flower among you the queen shall be,
Because of her beauty rare!"

Forthwith, a transcendantly glorious scene
Presented itself to the fairy queen,
In the beauty collected there.

As on the procession began to pass,
A violet peeped from the dewy grass,
In native simplicity drest:

The lovely procession she wished to see,
But one of the number she would not be;
She peeped but to view the rest.

Unconscious of beauty, the violet there
Nor ventures with others herself to compare,
Nor thought of her winning powers;

But she in her modesty quickly was seen
By the sparkling eye of the fairy queen,

Who crowned her the Queen of the Flowers.

COME AWAY TO THE BOWERS.

BY MRS. SARAH BROUGHTON.

COME away, come away, to the green woodland bowers, And cool the sad fever that burns on thy brow,

Where zephyrs are ringing the chime of the hours,

And the lays of the wind-harp are soothing and low.

Come, rest thee awhile from the world's weary strife,
Ambition's wild tumult, and envy's cold jar;
Commune with the glorious Spirit of Life,

In the hallowed retreat of the valleys afar.

The low, dreamy strains of the murmuring rills,
On the wing of the breeze through the sylvan dell borne,
Swell sweetly along o'er the verdure crowned hills,
Like the magical peals of some wild elfin horn.

And the lyre-notes that thrill through the whispering bowers,

Like the song of a seraph, bring peace to the breast; And the radiance that smiles in the lone forest flowers, Seems like light that has strayed from the land of the blest.

So purely it glows on the fair velvet leaves,

Sure an angel's bright pencil has traced the rich hue;