O LIFE! I breathe thee in the breeze,
I feel thee bounding in my veins,
I see thee in these stretching trees,

These flowers, this still rock's mossy stains.

This stream of odours flowing by

From clover-field and clumps of pine,

This music, thrilling all the sky,

From all the morning birds, are thine.

F

Thou fill'st with joy this little one,

That leaps and shouts beside me here, Where Isar's clay-white rivulets run

Through the dark woods like frighted deer.

Ah! must thy mighty breath, that wakes
Insect and bird, and flower and tree,
From the low trodden dust, and makes
Their daily gladness, pass from me.

Pass, pulse by pulse, till o'er the ground
These limbs, now strong, shall creep with pain,
And this fair world of sight and sound
Seem fading into night again?

The things, O Life! thou quickenest-all
Strive upward toward the broad bright sky,
Upward and outward, and they fall
Back to earth's bosom when they die.

All that have borne the touch of death,
All that shall live, lie mingled there,
Beneath that veil of bloom and breath,
That living zone 'twixt earth and air.

There lies my chamber dark and still,
The atoms trampled by my feet,
There wait, to take the place I fill
In the soft air and sunshine sweet.

Well, I have had my turn, have been
Raised from the darkness of the clod,
And for a glorious moment seen

The brightness of the skirts of God;

And know the light within my breast,
Though wavering oftentimes and dim,
power, the will that never rest,

The

And cannot die, were all from Him.

Dear child! I know that thou wilt grieve
To see me taken from thy love,

Wilt seek my grave at Sabbath eve,
And weep, and scatter flowers above.

Thy little heart will soon be heal'd,
And being shall be bliss, till thou
To younger forms of life must yield
The place thou fill'st with beauty now.

When we descend to dust again,
Where will the final dwelling be
Of Thought and all its memories then,
My love for thee, and thine for me?

-American.

W. C. BRYANT, 1798—

THE FIELD OF THE WORLD.

Sow in the morn thy seed,

At eve hold not thine hand;

To doubt and fear give thou no heed, Broadcast it o'er the land.

Beside all waters sow,

The highway furrows stock,

Drop it where thorns and thistles grow, Scatter it on the rock.

The good, the fruitful ground,
Expect not here nor there :

O'er hill and dale, by plots 'tis found;
Go forth, then, everywhere.

Thou knowest not which may thrive, The late or early sown ;

Grace keeps the precious germs alive,

When and wherever strown.

And duly shall appear

In verdure, beauty, strength;
The tender blade, the stalk, the ear,

And the full corn at length.

Thou canst not toil in vain ;

Cold, heat, and moist, and dry, Shall foster and mature the grain For garners in the sky.

Thence, when the glorious end,
The day of God is come,

The angel-reapers shall descend,

And Heaven cry-" Harvest Home."
JAMES MONTGOMERY, 1771-1854.

WATCH!

TRUST not, man! earth's flowers-but keep Busy watch-they fade, they bow

Watch, I say, for thou mayst weep

O'er the things thou smil'st on now.

Man! thou art a foolish child,
Playing with a flying ball—
Trifling sports, and fancies wild,

But the earth-worm swallows all.
Wherefore in a senseless sleep,

Careless dreaming-thoughtless vowWaste existence ?-Thou wilt weep

O'er the days thou smil'st on now.