Then the night-silence, long and deep,
When weary eyes close fast in sleep;
The hush of Nature's breath, until
The cock crows loud upon the hill;

And shortly through the eastern haze
The red sun sets the sky ablaze.

-James Berry Bensel.

FEBRUARY RAIN.

LONELY day! No sounds are heard
Save winds and floods that downward

pour,

And timid fluting of a bird,

That pipes one low note o'er and o'er.

Before the blast the bare trees lean,
The ragged clouds sail low and gray,
And all the wild and wintry scene
Is but one blur of driving spray..

O day most meet for memories,
For musing by a vacant hearth

On that which was and that which is,
And those who walk no more on earth!

And yet this dark and dreary day
Some brighter lesson still can bring,
For it is herald of the May,

A faint foretoken of the spring.

Beneath the ceaseless-beating rain
Earth's snowy shroud fast disappears,

As sorrow pressing on the brain,
Fades in a flood of happy tears.

And thus in darkness oft is wrought,
Through lonely days of tears and grief,
The gradual change by which is brought
To shadowed lives some sweet relief.

- Charles Turner Dazey.

UNDER THE SNOW.

T is pleasant to think, just under the snow,

Are beauty and warmth that we cannot know,
Green fields and leaves and blossoms of gold.
Yes, under this frozen and dumb expanse,
Ungladdened by bee or bird or flower,
A world where the leaping fountains glance,
And the buds expand, is waiting the hour.

It is hidden now; not a glimmer breaks

Through the hard blue ice and the sparkling drift. The world shrinks back from the downy flakes Which out of the fold of the night-cloud sift.

But as fair and real a world it is

As any that rolls in the upper blue;
If you wait you will hear its melodies,
And see the sparkle of fount and dew.

And often now when the skies are wild,

And hoarse and sullen the night winds blow,
And lanes and hollows with drifts are piled,
I think of the violets under the snow;

I look in the wild-flower's tremulous eye,

I hear the chirp of the groundbird brown; A breath from the budding grove steals by, And the swallows are dipping above the lawn.

So there, from the outer sense concealed,

It lies, shut in by a veil of snow;

But there, to the inward eye revealed,

Are boughs that blossom and flowers that glow.

The lily shines on its bending stem,

The crocus opens its April gold,
And the rose up-tosses its diadem
Against the floor of the winter's cold.

-Fay Hempstead.

Ο

MY WINDOW IVY.

VER my window the ivy climbs,
Its roots are in homely jars;

But all the day it looks at the sun,

And at night looks out at the stars.

The dust of the room may dim its green,
But I call to the breezy air:

"Come in, come in, good friend of mine!
And make my window fair."

So the ivy thrives from morn to morn,

Its leaves all turned to the light;

And it gladdens my soul with its tender green,

And teaches me day and night.

What though the dust of earth would dim?
There's a glorious outer air

That will sweep through my soul if I let it in,
And make it fresh and fair.

Dear God! let me grow from day to day,
Clinging and sunny and bright!

Though planted in shade, Thy window is near,

And my leaves may turn to the light.

-Mary Mapes Dodge. From "Along the Way." Copyright 1879, by Mary Mapes Dodge.

THE IVY GREEN.

H, a dainty plant is the ivy green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!

On right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.

The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed,

To pleasure his dainty whim;

And the moldering dust that years have made,
Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,

And a stanch old heart has he;

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings

To his friend, the huge oak-tree!

And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves;

And he joyously twines and hugs around
The rich mold of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,

And nations have scattered been ;

But the stout old ivy shall never fade

From its hale and hearty green.

The brave old plant in its lonely days

Shall fatten on the past;

For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the ivy's food at last.
Creeping where time has been,

A rare old plant is the ivy green.

- Charles Dickens.

TWILIGHT.

VE Maria! blessed be the hour,

AVE

The time, the clime, the spot, when I so oft
Have felt that moment in its fullest power

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft;
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,
Or the faint dying day hymn stole aloft ;

And not a breath crept through the rosy air,
And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with prayer,

Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay.

-Lord George Noel Gordon Byron.