They are fleeing forever; the freshness and bloom Of these sun-lighted days of the years of thy

life,

Like dreams dreamt on pillows of precious perfume

They fade ere thou knowest with what glory they 're rife.

But say you the summer is coming anon,

Its gardens all flush with ripe beauty and splendor,

With its harmonies grander than those that are gone,

With its sunshine more brilliant, its shadows more tender?

Dost thou say that its voices are richer in meaning,

The fruit that is mellow more luscious than bloom,

The harvest that 's golden and ripe for the gleaning

Worth all of the spring's evanescent perfume?

Ah! love 't is the seed sown in spring-time that grows

To spangle with blossoms the summer's green glade;

'Tis the sapling of spring whose maturity throws

Over summer's hot pulses the cool cloak of shade;

And the harvest that 's golden, the fruit that is red,

And the gushes of song on the summer day's track,

Are the precious results of a spring that has sped,

Which will never come back,-which will never come back.

Say'st thou autumn will come when the summer is gone,

With the purple and gold that embroider its glory,

And the song of the vintager greeting the dawn, While with blood of the grape the winepress

is gory?

Dost thou say that the full-handed autumn can tender

Such riches as spring-time nor summer e'er knew,

While the gorgeous skies and the forests of splendor

Are rarer than roses and richer than dew?

Remember that spring and its sunny caress, Its welcoming warmth and its fostering mould,

Is the source of all this that thy autumn can bless,

Its clusters of purple, its harvests of gold !

For the stalk yielding grain and the grape yielding wine,

And the fruit-laden orchards old autumn must lack,

Were it not for the tendrils of spring's early vine

And the seed of a season that never comes back.

Then gather now, darling, the delicate bloom Of the crocus, and jasmine, and clambering

rose;

Extract from their petals the precious perfume, Thy life to embalm as it draws to a close; Scatter seeds while the days of thy years are but few,

Broadcast upon intellect's nourishing meuld, That the sunshine of youth and its fostering dew

May yield thee a harvest of beauty untold.

For the spring-time of youth quickly fadeth away

And the swift summer perish on time's sterile shore;

All the autumn's rich glory fast falls to decay And winter's chill hillsides are ours-nothing

more.

But if the seed-time thou 'st planted aright, For each season of life shall some blessing arise,

Till the Spring-time Eternal shall bloom on thy sight,

And thy wandering feet roam the star-sprinkled skies.

"Lines to Cora."

MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND.

WI

CORDELIA.

HEN winsome fair Cordelia
Down to her garden goes,
The West Wind wafts a courtesy
From every climbing rose;
He doffs the hollyhocks' gay hats,
And bows the pinks' stiff heads,
Or, with glowing poppy petals,

A dainty pathway spreads

O West Wind, O West Wind! Who art so bold and free,

Who woos my love Cordelia (she takes no heed

of me);

I would I were the North Wind, that I might buffet thee!

She plays upon the spinet, when
The candles are alight ;
And rising, gayly crosses there
The oaken hallway bright;
Against the broidered tapestry
Dances her silhouette,

As, with an unseen cavalier,
She treads the minuet.

Cordelia, sweet Cordelia, I prythee, cease thy jest;

I love thy very shadow, dear, and surely, it were best,

To flout me not, but wed me now, and give my spirit rest.

The gleaming silver candlesticks
Reflect her mocking smile,
And silken downcast lashes, too;
Then ponders she, awhile,
"But, 't is thou who art my shadow,
Who always followest me;

Narcissus-like, thou lovest thyself!
(She laughs right merrily)-

Alas," I cry, "Cordelia, and dost thou bid me

Makes answer sweet Cordelia,

somewhat slow,

But ne'erless, thou mayest yet, of hope, a

shadow know."

"Her Shadow."

NANCY MANN WADDLE.