Yet well I love them, one and all,

These friends so meek and unobtrusive,

Who never fail to come at call,

Nor (if I scold them) turn abusive!

If I have favorites here and there,

And, like a monarch, pick and choose,

I never meet an angry stare

That this I take and that refuse;

Among these peaceful book-relations,

Nor envious strife of age or sex
To mar my quiet lucubrations.

And they have still another merit,
Which otherwhere one vainly seeks,
Whate'er may be an author's spirit,
He never uninvited speaks;

And should he prove a fool or clown,

Unworth the precious time you're spending,
How quickly you can "put him down,"
Or "shut him up," without offending.

Here-pleasing sight!-the touchy brood
Of critics from dissension cease,
And-stranger still!—no more at feud,
Polemics smile, and keep the peace.

See! side by side, all free from strife

(Save what the heavy page may smother), The gentle "Christians" who, in life,

For conscience' sake had burned each other.

I call them friends, these quiet books,
And well the title they may claim,
Who always give me cheerful looks
(What living friend has done the same?)
And, for companionship, how few,

As these, my cronies, ever-present,

Of all the friends I ever knew,

Have been so useful and so pleasant?

J. G. SAXE.

EVENING.

THE breath of spring-time, at this twilight hour,
Comes through the gathering gloom,
And bears the stolen sweets of many a flower
Into my silent room.

Where hast thou wandered, gentle gale, to find
The perfumes thou dost bring?

By brooks that through the wakening meadows wind,
Or brink of rushy spring?

Or woodside, where, in little companies

The early wild flowers rise,

Or sheltered lawn, where, mid encircling trees,
May's warmest sunshine lies?

Now sleeps the humming-bird, that, in the sun,
Wandered from bloom to bloom;

Now, too, the weary bee, his day's work done,
Rests in his waxen room.

Now every hovering insect to his place
Beneath the leaves hath flown;

And, through the long night hours, the flowery race
Are left to thee alone.

O'er the pale blossoms of the sassafras,
And o'er the spice-bush spray,

Among the open buds thy breathings pass,
And come embalmed away.

Yet there is sadness in thy soft caress,
Wind of the blooming year!

The gentle presence, that was wont to bless
Thy coming, is not here.

Go, then; and yet I bid thee not repair,
Thy gathered sweets to shed

THE OTHER WORLD.

Where pine and willow, in the evening air,
Sigh o'er the buried dead.

Pass on to homes where cheerful voices sound,
And cheerful looks are cast,

And where thou wakest, in thine airy round,
No sorrow of the past.

And whisper, everywhere, that earth renews.
Her beautiful array,

Amid the darkness and the gathering dews,
For the return of day.

175

W. C. BRYANT.

THE OTHER WORLD.

IT lies around us like a cloud-
A world we do not see;

Yet the sweet closing of an eye
May bring us there to be.

Its gentle breezes fan our cheek;
Amid our worldly cares,
Its gentle voices whisper love,

And mingle with our prayers.

176

THE OTHER WORLD.

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat,
Sweet helping hands are stirred
And palpitates the veil between
With breathings almost heard.

The silence-awful, sweet and calm-
They have no power to break;
For mortal words are not for them
To utter or partake.

So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide,
So near to press they seem-
They seem to lull us to our rest,
And melt into our dream.

And in the hush of rest they bring,

'Tis

easy now to see,

How lovely and how sweet a pass

The hour of death may

be;

To close the eye, and close the ear,
Wrapped in a trance of bliss,

And gently laid in loving arms,

To swoon to that—from this;

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep,
Scarce asking where we are;