AUTUMN LEAVES.

Philippians iii. 21.

[Rev. John Keble, born 25th April, 1792; died 29th March, 1866. Educated at Oxford, and from 1831 until 1841 he occupied the chair of poetry in that university. He was vicar of Hursley, Hampshire; and the author of various works which have had considerable influence upon modern religious thought. He wrote one of the famous Oxford Tracts for the Times; but his most popular works are: The Christian Year: thoughts in verse for the Sundays and holidays throughout the year; The Child's Christian Year; Lyra Innocentium: being thoughts in verse on children, their ways and their privileges; Sermons, Academical and Occasional; &c. The Christian Year first appeared in 1827, and has passed through more than seven hundred editions. The Quarterly Review said of it: "In this volume Old Herbert would have recognized a kindred spirit, and Walton would have gone on a pilgrimage to make acquaintance with the author."]

Red o'er the forest peers the setting sun,
The line of yellow light dies fast away
That crown'd the eastern copse: and chill and dun
Falls on the moor the brief November day.

Now the tir'd hunter winds a parting note, And Echo bids good-night from every glade; Yet wait awhile, and see the calm leaves float Each to his rest beneath their parent shade,

How like decaying life they seem to glide!

And yet no second spring have they in store,

But where they fall, forgotten to abide

Is all their portion, and they ask no more.

Soon o'er their heads blithe April airs shall sing,
A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold,
The green buds glisten in the dews of Spring,
And all be vernal rapture as of old,

Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie,

In all the world of busy life around No thought of them; in all the bounteous sky No drop, for them, of kindly influence found.

Man's portion is to die and rise again—

Yet he complains, while these unmurmuring part With their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain, As his when Edon held his virgin heart.

And haply half unblam'd his murmuring voice
Might sound in Heaven, were all his second life
Only the first renew'd-the heathen's choice,
A round of listless joy and weary strife.

For dreary were this earth, if earth were all, Tho' brighten'd oft by dear affection's kiss ;Who for the spangles wears the funeral pall?

But catch a gleam beyond it, and 'tis bliss.

Heavy and dull this frame of limbs and heart,
Whether slow creeping on cold earth, or borna
On lofty steed, or loftier prow, we dart

O'er wave or field: yet breezes laugh to scorn

Our puny speed, and birds, and clouds in heaven,
And fish, like living shafts that pierce the main,
And stars that shoot through freezing air at even-
Who but would follow, might he break his chain?
And thou shalt break it soon; the grovelling worm
Shall find his wings, and soar as fast and free
As his transfigur'd Lord with lightning form
And snowy vest-such grace He won for thee,

When from the grave He sprang at dawn of morn,
And led through boundless air thy conquering road,
Leaving a glorious track, where saints, new-born,
Might fearless follow to their blest abode,

But first, by many a stern and fiery blast

The world's rude furnace must thy blood refine, And many a gale of keenest woe be pass'd

Till every pulse beat true to airs divine,

Till every limb obey the mounting soul,
The mounting soul, the call by Jesus given..
He who the stormy heart can so control,
The laggard body soon will waft to Heaven..

MY FARE.

[George Manville Fenn, born in Pimlico, London, Sd January, 1831. Novelist and miscellaneous writer. His principal novels are: Bent, not Broken; Webs in the Way: Mad; By Birth a Lady; Sapphire Cross; A Little World. He has also produced four volumes of Original Penny Readings, has contributed to our chief magazines, and edited Cassell's Magazine and Once-a-Week. Of his. short tales one critic says: "The characters are real personages, and their narratives display a hundred touches of almost microscopic truth; while the power with which Mr. Fenn reproduces the surroundings, the characteristics, the very atmosphere of his stories, is. photographic in its minuteness, and beyond all praise."]

Don't you make a mistake now, and think I'm not a working-man, because I am. Don't you run away with the idea that because I go of a morning and find my horse and cab waiting ready cleaned for me, and I jumps up and drives off, as I don't work as hard as any mechanic, because I do; and I used to work harder, for it used to be Sunday and weekdays, till the missus and me laid our heads together, and said if we couldn't live on six days' work a week at cabbing, we'd try some. thing else; so now I am only a six days' man -Hansom cab, V.R., licensed to carry two

persons.