Thou comest with the might of floods,
The glow of moonlit skies,

And the glory flung on fading woods,
Of thousand mingled dyes!

But never seem'd thy steps so bright
On Europe's ancient shore,
Since faded from the poet's sight,
That golden age of yore;

For early harvest-home hath poured
Its gladness on the hearth,

And the joy that lights the princely board
Hath reached the peasant's hearth.

O Thou, whose silent bounty flows
To bless the sower's art,

With gifts that ever claim from us
The harvests of the heart-

If thus thy goodness crowns the year,
What shall the glory be,

When all thy harvest, whitening here,
Is gathered home to thee!

FAREWELL TO THE FLOWERS.

BY FRANCES BROWN.

Farewell! farewell! bright children of the sun,
Whose beauty rose around our path where'er
We wander'd forth since vernal days begun-

The glory and the garland of the year.

Ye came, the children of the spring's bright promise-
Ye crown'd the summer in her path of light;

And now when autumn's wealth is passing from us,
We gaze upon your parting boon, as bright
And dearer far than summer's richest hue-
Sweet flowers, adieu!

You will return again; the early beams

Of spring will wake ye from your wintry sleep, By the still fountains and the shining streams,

That through the green and leafy woodlands sweep; Ye will return again, to cheer the bosoms

Of the deep valleys, by old woods o'erhung,
With the fresh fragrance of your opening blossoms,
To be the joy and treasure of the young-
With birds from the far lands, and sunny hours,
Ye will return, sweet flowers.

But when will they return, our flowers that fell
From life's blanch'd garland when its bloom was new,
And left but the dim memories that dwell

In silent hearts and homes? The summer's dew, And summer's sun, with all their balm and brightness, May fall on deserts or on graves in vain;

But to the locks grown dim with early whiteness,
What spring can give the sable back again,
Or to the early wither'd heart restore

Its perish'd bloom once more?

In vain, in vain-years come and years depart―
Time hath its changes, and the world its tears;
And we grow old in frame, and gray in heart—
Seeking the grave through many hopes and fears;
But still the ancient earth renews around us

Her faded flowers, though life renews no more
The bright but early broken ties that bound us,
The garlands that our blighted summers wore:
Birds to the trees, and blossoms to the bowers
Return-but not life's flowers!

Thus sang the bard, when autumn's latest gold
Hung on the woods, and summer's latest bloom
Was fading fast, as winter, stern and cold,

Came from his northern home of clouds and gloom.

But from the dying flowers a voice seem'd breathing
Of higher hopes; it whisper'd sweet and low-
"When spring again her sunny smile is wreathing,
We will return to thee-but thou must go
To seek life's blighted blossoms on that shore
Where flowers can fade no more!"

THE LAST OF THE JAGELLONS.

BY FRANCES BROWN.

"Oh, minstrel, wake thy harp once more,
For winter's twilight falls,

And coldly dim it darkens o'er
My lonely heart and halls:
But memories of my early home

Around me gather fast

For still with twilight shadows come

The shadows of the past.

"Then wake thy lyre, my faithful bard,
And breathe again for me

The songs that in my land was heard,
While yet that land was free

The lays of old romantic times,

When hearts and swords were true

They will recall the dazzling dreams
That youth and childhood knew."

Twas thus the noble matron spake
To one whose tuneful strains
Could win her exiled spirit back
To Poland's pleasant plains;
But how did memory's wizard-wand
Far distant scenes portray,

As thus the minstrel of the land

Awoke her lyre and lay:

"The shout hath ceased in Volla's field, But still its echoes ring

With the last thunder-burst that hail'd
Sarmatia's chosen king.

For young Jagellon now ascends
His father's ancient throne;
Yet still the chosen monarch stands
Uncrown'd-but not alone!

"A lovely form is by his side, A hand is clasp'd in his,

That well might be a monarch's bride,
Even in an hour like this;

For never fairer form was seen
In saint's or poet's dreams,
Nor ever shone a nobler mein

In Poland's princely dames.

"Oh, many a princely dame is there, And many a noble knight—

The flower of Poland's famed and fair

The glory of her might.

But there is pride in every face,

And wrath in every tone,

As on that fair young brow, their gaze Of gather'd scorn is thrown.

"There came, an ancient senator,
With firm and stately tread,
And to the silent monarch there
In courtly phrase he said:

'The love that cannot grace a throne

A king should cast aside

Then let Jagellon reign alone,

Or choose a royal bride.'

"The monarch yet more closely clasp'd

That small and snowy hand;

Then like a knightly warrior grasp'd

His own unrivall'd brand;

And from his dark eye flash'd the pride

Of all his martial line,

As-'By my father's sword,' he cried, 'Such choice shall ne'er be mine:

"My land hath seen her ancient crown Bestow'd for many an age,

While other nations have bow'd down

To kingly heritage;

And now the crown she freely gave,

I render back as free;

For, if unshared by her I love,
It shines no more for me.'

"He said-but from the throng arose,
Ere yet his speech was done,
A wilder, louder cheer than those
That told of conquests won-
When far in many a famous field,
Through long, victorious years,
O'er Tartar bow and Paynim shield,

He led the Polish spears.

"And thus they said, 'The flower whose worth

Inspired a soul so great

With love like this, whate'er her birth,

Should be a monarch's mate;

And as thy tameless heart was found

To love and honor true

Oh, early tried and far renowned,

Be true to Poland, too!""

The minstrel ceased, and with a sigh,
That noble matron said-

"Alas, for Europe's chivalry-
How hath its glory fled!
Perchance in sylvan grove or glen,
Such faithful love is known,

But when will earth behold again
Its truth so near a throne!"