LONGING.

Of all the myriad moods of mind
That through the soul come thronging,
Which one was e'er so dear, so kind,
So beautiful as Longing?

The thing we long for, that we are
For one transcendent moment,
Before the Present poor and bare
Can make its sneering comment.

Still, through our paltry stir and strife,
Glows down the wish'd Ideal,
And Longing moulds in clay what Life
Carves in the marble Real;

To let the new life in, we know,
Desire must ope the portal ;—

Perhaps the Longing to be so
Helps make the soul immortal.

Longing is God's fresh heavenward will

With our poor earthward striving;

We quench it that we may be still
Content with merely living;

But, would we learn that heart's full scope
Which we are hourly wronging,

Our lives must climb from hope to hope, And realise our Longing.

Ah! let us hope that to our praise

Good God not only reckons

The moments when we tread His ways,
But when the spirit beckons,-
That some slight good is also wrought
Beyond self-satisfaction,

When we are simply good in thought,
Howe'er we fail in action.

JAMES R. LOWELL, 1819—

-American.

THE SHADOW OF THE HAND.

"How varied are life's flowery paths,
With varied pleasures strown;
But there, where Duty points the track,
Is happiness alone.”

Thus musing, as in fancy, far

My footsteps seem'd to stray

Methought some strange mysterious power

Impell'd them on their way.

It was a shady path I trod,

Yet beautiful to see;

For there were flowers upon the turf,

And birds in every tree.

I loved the flowers, their form, their hue,
Their fragrance, faint and rare ;

I loved the birds, whose plaintive strains,
Harmonious, fill'd the air.

The clustering shadows of the trees
Upon the ground were cast:

They seem'd to change their forms, each time
A breath of wind went past.

Yet still methought, as if the path

Were some good angel's care,—

The figure of a hand I traced
Among the shadows there!

A hand, that ever pointed me
Along that peaceful way:

A way so happy, strange 'twould seem,
That I should wish to stray!

Yet oft, too oft, I knew not whence,
Gay sounds would reach mine ear,

Of music, mirth, and revelry,

And I would pause to hear:

And through the trees, on either side
That shady path, would gleam

Bright eyes, and glittering forms,-such sights
As happy lovers dream!

And they would call in wily tones,
That sounded sweet and low,-
And wave to me their snow-white arms,
Until I long'd to go.

But, while the shadow of the hand
Upon the greensward lay,

I could not turn to right or left,—
A charm was on the way!

I felt, beneath that hallow'd spell,
New life my being thrill,-
And all things lovely seem'd to take
A lovelier semblance still.

The air breathed purer,-from the flowers

A rarer fragrance given,

And through the leaves above I saw
The blue and quiet heaven.

All was so sweet within that path,
I would not from it stray,
And leave that shadow of the hand
Heaven-sent to point my way.

There may be summer paths afar,
With flowers more bright and rare ;
But what of them, unless that hand
Have cast its shadow there?

Not fortune's brightest beams I ask

Around my path to play,

If Duty with its guiding hand,
But point my onward way.

-American Magazine.

THE WEAVER'S SONG.

ON merrily speeds the shuttle, boys,
And gaily smacks the lay;
Then, cheerily as the hour flies,
Let's sing its weight away.

No gems we need to deck the brow,
Nor beads of kingly oil,

For richer far adorn us now—

The sweat of honest toil.

But while we weave,

And time the stave,

See all goes fair and well;
For what's amiss,

Depend on this,

The warehouse day will tell.

'Tis sweet to see the shuttles play,

And hear the flighters speak,

On little silvery Saturday,

When well we've spent the week.
Q