SEPTEMBER.

TRANCED in a liquid calm September lies,
Her bosom heaves with breathings soft and low;
The palpitating air in heart-warm stillness dies,
And brooding peace is over all below.

Elaine Goodale.

Oh what a glory does this world put on
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks
On duties well performed, and days well spent!
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.
He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go

To his long resting-place without a tear.

H. W. Longfellow.

With the love of a holier world than this
Her innocent heart seemed warm;

While the glad young spirit looked out with bliss
From its shrine in her sylph-like form.

Her soul seemed spreading the scene to span
That opened before her view;

And longing for power to look the plan
Of the universe fairly through.

September 2.

No dreamer thou, but real all, —

H. F. Gould.

Strong manhood crowning vigorous youth; Life made by duty epical

And rhythmic with the truth.

So shall that life the fruitage yield
Which trees of healing only give,
And green-leafed in the Eternal field
Of God, for ever live.

September 3.

J. G. Whittier.

-

As the rivers farthest flowing,
In the highest hills have birth;
As the banyan, broadest growing,
Oftenest bows its head to earth, -
So the noblest minds press onward,
Channels far of good to trace ;
So the largest hearts bend downward,
Circling all the human race.

Mrs. S. J. Hale.

September 2.

September 3.

He who would gain

A fond, full heart-in love's soft surgery skilled, Should seek it when 'tis sore; allay its pain

With balm by pity prest: 'tis all his own so healed.

Mrs. M. G. Brooks.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,

The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

September 5.

7. G. Whittier.

Sorely tried and sorely tempted,
From no agonies exempted,
In the penance of his trial,
And the discipline of pain;
Often by illusions cheated,
Often baffled and defeated
In the tasks to be completed,
He, by toil and self-denial,
To the highest shall attain.

September 6.

H. W. Longfellow.

Oh, what a face was hers to brighten light,
And give back sunshine with an added glow,
To wile each moment with a fresh delight,
And part of memory's best contentment grow!
Oh, how her voice, as with an inmate's right,
Into the strangest heart would welcome go,
And make it sweet and ready to become

Of white and gracious thoughts the chosen home.
J. R. Lowell.