There is a Power whose care

Teaches thy way along the pathless coast.

The desert and illimitable air,

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann'd,

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;

Soon shalt thou find a summer home and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven

Hath swallow'd up thy form; yet, on my heart,
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain

flight,

In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE FALL OF NIAGARA,

THE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain,

While I look upward to thee. It would seem
As if God poured thee from his "hollow hand,"
And hung his bow upon thine awful front; [him
And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,
"The sound of many waters"; and had bade
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back,
And notch His cent'ries in the eternal rocks.
Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we,
That hear the question of that voice sublime?
O! what are all the notes that ever rung

From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side!
Yea, what is all the riot man can make

In his short life, to thy unceasing roar !

And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him.
Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far
Above its loftiest mountains?—a light wave,
That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might.

JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.

"THE WOODS THAT BRING THE SUNSET NEAR."

THE wind from out the west is blowing,
The homeward-wandering cows are lowing,
Dark grows the pine-woods, dark and drear,—
The woods that bring the sunset near.

When o'er wide seas the sun declines,
Far off its fading glory shines,

Far off, sublime, and full of fear—
The pine-woods bring the sunset near.

This house that looks to east, to west,
This, dear one, is our home, our rest;
Yonder the stormy sea, and here
The woods that bring the sunset near.

RICHARD WATSON GILDer.

MY OWL.

OF manners and tricks, as erratic
As ever a bird's may be,

Is the brown owl I keep in my attic,
As a quiet companion for me.

He perches all day on a rafter,

Staring down with his great round eyes; And excites my inordinate laughter

He looks so important and wise!

I have watched him for whole hours together, This dignified judge of a bird,

Fluttering never a feather,

Nor uttering ever a word.

But he sits there winking and blinking,
Not an inch from his post will he stir
Until sunset; most probably thinking
Of the jolly old days that were—

Of the Naugatuck woods, and the thicket,
Where the little birds tasted so nice;
When the world didn't seem half so wicked,
And barns were o'errunning with mice.

But at night, like the grimmest of sentries,
At the time of the flitting of bats,
He patrols through the garrets and entries,
And arrests all the vagabond rats.

It may seem to you lonely, but surely
Our life is of comfort the type;
He munches his mutton demurely,
While I am enjoying my pipe,

Of love I have witnessed the folly,

And experienced the baseness of man : The secret of life is—be jolly,

Read Dickens, and sleep when you can!

So I say, let the world with its trouble
Drift on, for its cares we defy;
From our garret it seems but a bubble,
To my little brown owl and I.

HENRY S. Cornwell.

THE DANDELIONS.

UPON a showery night and still,
Without a sound of warning,
A trooper band surprised the hill,
And held it in the morning.