THOSE evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time.
When last I heard their soothing chime!

Those joyous hours are pass 'd away;
And many a heart that then was gay
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 't will be when I am gone, -
That tuneful peal will still ring on;
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.

THOMAS MOORE.

BROTHER AND SISTER.

I CANNOT choose but think upon the time

When our two lives grew like two buds that kiss At lightest thrill from the bee's swinging chime, Because the one so near the other is.

He was the elder, and a little man

Of forty inches, bound to show no dread, And I the girl that puppy-like now ran,

Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread.

I held him wise, and when he talked to me.

Of snakes and birds, and which God loved the best,

I thought his knowledge marked the boundary
Where men grew blind, though angels knew the rest.

If he said, "Hush!" I tried to hold my breath;
Wherever he said, "Come!" I stepped in faith.

School parted us; we never found again

That childish world where our two spirits mingled Like scents from varying roses that remain One sweetness, nor can evermore be singled.

Yet the twin habit of that early time

Lingered for long about the heart and tongue; We had been natives of one happy clime,

And its dear accent to our utterance clung.