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The night-wind is a minstrel, who for centuries

has sung,

And darkness is the temple where his mighty harp is hung;

'Tis strung with rays of starlight, and I love to hear him sweep

Those mystic chords, till Nature chants an anthem in her sleep.

-I Love to Hear the Wind Blow.

I've sometimes prayed that we might meet
Upon this earth no more;
But ere it reached the mercy-seat
My saddened soul would pour
Another and a wilder prayer,

In bitterness and pain,

Beseeching still, with deep despair,
To meet thee once again.

-The Remembered Name.

Yet, like the Resurrection-flower,
Which, rescued from the Egyptian's tomb,
When moistened by a gentle shower,

In wondrous beauty still will bloom,
We sometimes find a heart t prize,
Which, changeless still through grief and

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ISS MORGAN is a native of Scotland, but removed, with her family, in very early life to Canada, so that her whole literary work belongs to the New World. Most of her life has been spent in Milton Cottage on the banks of the St. Lawrence a few miles below Montreal. She has therefore been long known in the educated society of that city as one who can always be relied upon to take an active interest in every scheme for the promotion of a higher culture; and Milton Cottage is a favorite resort for people of literary sympathies, especially in the long afternoons of summer, when its garden is brilliantly attractive. It is but twelve or thirteen years ago since Miss Morgan began to publish any of her literary work. Since then her name has become familiar to the readers of various periodicals in the United States as well as in Canada. Her best work is in the lyrical vein; and the moods of the soul, for which she seems to find expression by preference in her lyrics, are not the more boisterous passions by which the average human heart is most commonly stormed, but rather those delicate, calm emotions that are naturally awakened by the rarer reflections of a cultured mind. About a year ago Miss Morgan collected a few of her most appreciated productions in a dainty little volume published at Montreal under the title of "Poems and Translations." An edition of this collection for the United States is now being brought out with the more attractive title of "Woodnotes in the Gloaming." Much of her work has been done over the signature of Gowan Lea. J. C. M.


HARK! is 't thy step, New Year?

With sure but stealthy pace thou aye dost come; And in thy train are gladdening gifts for some; O haste thee, glad New Year!

Too swift thy step, New Year!

The past had gathered friends from many lands, And thou dost come to part their claspèd hands: Alas, so soon, New Year!

"O haste!" Delay!" New Year;Two prayers together rising up to heaven: The answer trust; for is it not God-given? Meet bravely the New Year!

Bid welcome the New Year!

O clear-voiced Truth, lead in the coming morn; And gentle Charity, our lives adorn:

Hope lives in the New Year'


(For Music.)

BE strong, O soul! The morning breaketh fair;
All blue the sky-no cloudlet anywhere;
Yet think, thy path is infinite and there

Thou walkest all alone: O soul, be strong!
Be strong, O soul! It is the full noon-day;
But thorns and briars have sprung up on thy way;
Take heed unto thy steps, that so thou may

Not faint nor fall: do thou beware, O soul! Be strong, O soul! The night comes on apace, The crescent moon hath hid her pensive face, Nor canst thou on the darkening heavens trace

One lonely star: now, now be strong, O soul! Be calm, O soul! Dream not the night can last: If memory hath linked thee to the past, So, to the future, Hope hath bound thee fast: Be thou as calm as strong, O anxious soul!


ONE questions eagerly, "Can friendship die?"
Another, as with warning, answers low:
"The fickle winds of fortune ever blow,
Full often severing the olden tie.
Mark how the soul of aspiration high

Outstrips the lesser soul of progress slow;
And say if time be not a ruthless foe
Whom only rarest friendship can defy.
Unconsciously, perchance, may feeling wane;
The turning-point will oft elude the mind,
Which some day wonders how the coldness grew.
Behold yon rainbow through the glistening rain!
Canst thou the limit of one color find?
Yet does the violet shade into the blue."

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