Mary E. Lee.

THE POETS.

THE poets-the poets-
Those giants of the earth,

In mighty strength they tower above
The men of common birth:

A noble race-they mingle not
Among the motley throng,

But move, with slow and measured step,
To music-notes along.

The poets-the poets

What conquests they can boast' Without one drop of life-blood spilt, They rule a world's wide host; Their stainless banner floats unharmed From age to lengthened age;

And History records their deeds

Upon her proudest page.

The poets-the poets—

How endless is their fame!

Death, like a thin mist, comes, yet leave No shadow on each name;

But as yon starry gems that gleam

In evening's crystal sky,

So have they won, in memory's depths, An immortality.

The poets--the poets ---
Who doth not linger o'er
The glorious volumes that contain
Their bright and spotless lore?
They charm us in the saddest hours,
Our richest joys they feed;
And love for them has grown to be
A universal creed.

The poets-the poets—

Those kingly minstrels dead, Well may we twine a votive wreath Around each honoured head:

No tribute is too high to give

Those crowned ones among men.

The poets-the true poets—

Thanks be to God for them!

Rev. William Croswell, D D.

THE CLOUDS.

"Cloud land! gorgeous land!"—COLERIDGE.

I

CANNOT look above and see

Yon high-piled, pillowy mass

Of evening clouds, so swimmingly
In gold and purple pass,

And think not, LORD, how thou wast seen

On Israel's desert way,

Before them, in thy shadowy screen,
Pavilioned all the day!

Or, of those robes of gorgeous hue
Which the Redeemer wore,

When, ravished from his followers' view,

Aloft his flight He bore, When lifted, as on mighty wing,

He curtained his ascent,

And, wrapped in clouds, went triumphing

Above the firmament.

Is it a trail of that same pall
Of many-coloured dyes,

That high above, o'ermantling all,
Hangs midway down the skies-
Or borders of those sweeping folds
Which shall be all unfurled
About the Saviour, when He holds
His judgment on the world?

For in like manner as He went,—

My soul, hast thou forgot?— Shall be his terrible descent,

When man expecteth not!

Strength, Son of Man, against that hour,

Be to our spirits given,

When Thou shalt come again with power Upon the clouds of heaven!

William Pitt Palmer

LINES то A CHRYSALIS

M

USING long, I asked me this "Chrysalis,

Lying helpless in my path,

Obvious to mortal scath

From a careless passer-by,
What thy life may signify?

Why, from hope and joy apart,
Thus thou art?

"Nature surely did amiss,

Chrysalis,

When she lavished fins and wings,
Nerved with nicest moving-springs,
On the mote and madrepore,
Wherewithal to swim or soar;
And dispensed so niggardly
Unto thee.

"E'en the very worm may kiss,
Chrysalis,

Roses on their topmost stems,
Blazoned with their dewy gems,
And may rock him to and fro
As the zephyrs softly blow;
Whilst thou liest, dark and cold,
On the mould."

Quoth the Chrysalis: "Sir Bard

Not so hard

Is my rounded destiny

In the great Economy.

Nay, by humble reason viewed,
There is much for gratitude
In the shaping and upshot
Of my lot.

"Though I seem of all things to m Most forlorn,

Most obtuse of soul and sense,

Next of kin to Impotence,

Nay, to Death himself; yet ne'e

Priest or prophet, sage or seer,

May sublimer wisdom teach
Than I preach.

"From my pulpit of the sod,
Like a god,

I proclaim this wondrous truth:
Farthest age is nearest youth,

Nearest Glory's natal porch,

Where, with pale, inverted torch, Death lights downward to the rest Of the blest.

"Mark yon airy butterfly's

Rainbow-dyes!

Yesterday that shape divine

Was as darkly hearsed as mine.

But to-morrow I shall be

Free and beautiful as e,

And sweep forth on wings of light

Like a sprite.