No tears about their graves be shed; but sweetest flow'rs be flung

The fittest offering thou canst make to hearts that perish young

To hearts this world has never torn with racking hopes and fears;

For bless'd are they who pass away in boyhood's happy years.

THE FALL OF THE LEAVES.

THEY are falling, they are falling, and soon, alas! they'll fade,

The flowers of the garden, the leaves of dell and glade; Their dirge the winds are singing in the lone and fitful

blast,

And the leaves and flowers of summer are strewn and fading fast.

Ah! why then have we loved them, when their beauties might have told

They could not linger long with us, nor stormy skies behold?

Fair creatures of the sunshine; your day of life is past, Ye are scatter'd by the rude winds, fallen and fading

fast:

And, oh! how oft enchanted have we watch'd your opening bloom,

When you made unto the day-god your offerings of perfume!

How vain are our imaginings that joy will always

last:

'Tis like to you, ye sweet things, all dimm'd and faded fast.

The glens where late ye bloom'd for us, are leafless now and lorn;

The tempest's breath hath all their pride and all their beauty shorn.

'Twas ever so, and so shall be: by fate that doom was

cast

The things we love are scarcely seen till they are gone and past.

Ay, ye are gone and faded, ye leaves and lovely flowers;

But when spring comes, you'll come again to deck the garden's bowers;

And beauty, too, will cull you, and twine you in her hair

What meeter, truer emblem can beauty ever wear? But never, here, oh! never, shall we the loved ones

meet,

Who shone in youth around us, and like you faded fleet.

Full soon affliction bow'd them, and life's day-dawn o'ercast :

They're blooming now in heaven, their day of fading's past!

Ye wither'd leaves and flowers! oh! may you long

impart

Monition grave and moral stern unto this erring heart :

Oh! teach it that the joys of earth are short-lived,

vain, and frail,

And transient as the leaves and flowers before the wintry gale!

Rev. Dr. Rock.

THE MONTH OF MAY.

OUR sires have said, and we still say,
Of months the loveliest month is May.
Then, all's so young, so soft, so sweet-
Where'er we roam, we beauty meet.
Each grove's so green! and dell and field
Seem glad their varied blooms to yield.
Flow'rs deck each bank, each hidden nook;
There are warblings in each prattling brook.
Each cloud's so light that creeps on high,

So listless 'thwart the clear blue sky;
The merry lark soars blithesome there,
Flooding with song the balmy air.
Then, music and sweet odours dwell
In one same bush it loves so well :
The nightingale that, night and day,
Hid 'neath the blossom'd hawthorn spray,
Pours forth its soothing roundelay;
And copse and wood with gladness ring,
As throstle and the blackbird sing.

All heav'n, all earth, seem then to show
What once was Eden here below.

With this best month throughout the year 'tis meet
The best 'mid all God's creatures we should greet.

Then let us bring from May's gay bowers
May's fairest garlands-sweetest flow'rs;
Then let us spend May's length'ning days
In lengthen'd hymns in Mary's praise;
And let her altars bloom each day
With wreaths fresh-gather'd all through May.
This fairest month in all the year
Thine shall be, Mary! and our prayer
Shall be like flow'rs.

Charles Gaban Duffy.

A LAY SERMON.

BROTHER, do you love your brother?
Brother, are you all you seem?
Do you live for more than living?
Has your life a law and scheme?
Are you prompt to bear its duties,

As a brave man may beseem?

Brother, shun the mist exhaling
From the fen of pride and doubt;
Neither seek the house of bondage
Walling straiten'd souls about;
Bats! who from their narrow spy-hole,
Cannot see a world without.

Anchor in no stagnant shallow;
Trust the wide and wondrous sea,
Where the tides are fresh for ever,
And the mighty currents free;
There, perchance, O young Columbus,
Your New World of truth may be.

Favour will not make deserving;
(Can the sunshine brighten clay?)
Slowly must it grow to blossom,
Fed by labour and delay,
And the fairest bud of promise
Bears the taint of quick decay.

You must strive for better guerdons;
Strive to be the thing you'd seem;
Be the thing that God hath made you,
Channel for no borrow'd stream:
He hath lent you mind and conscience;
See you travel in their beam!