There are fragments of song that nobody sings,

And a part of an infant's prayer;

There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings; There are broken vows and pieces of rings,

And the garments that she used to wear.

There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore By the Mirage is lifted in air,

And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, When the wind down the river is fair.

O remember'd for aye, be the blessed Isle,
All the day of our life until night;
When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,
May that "Greenwood" of soul be in sight!

THERE COMES A TIME.

There comes a time, or soon or late,
When every word unkindly spoken,
Returns with all the force of fate,

To bear reproof from spirits broken,
Who slumber in that tranquil rest,
Which waking cares no more molest.

Oh! were the wealth of worlds our own,
We freely would the treasures yield,
If eyes that here their last have shone,
If lips in endless silence sealed,
One look of love o'er us might cast,
Might breathe forgiveness to the past.

When anger arms the thoughtless tongue,
To wound the feelings of a friend,
Oh! think ere yet his heart be wrung,

In what remorse thy wrath may end;
Withhold to-day the words of hate,
To-morrow it may be too late.

A WISH.

8. ROGERS.

Mine be a cot beside the hill;

A bee hive's hum shall soothe mine ear;

A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay built nest;

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees,

Where first our marriage vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven.

LINES WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT

AT EVENING.

W. WORDSWORTH.

How richly glows the water's breast
Before us, tinged with evening hues,
While facing thus the crimson west,

The boat her silent course pursues!
And see how dark the backward stream!
A little moment past so smiling!
And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,
Some other loiterers beguiling.

Such views the youthful bard allure;
But, heedless of the following gloom,

He deems their colors shall endure

Till peace go with him to the tomb.

And let him nurse his fond deceit,

And what if he must die in sorrow!

Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,

Though grief and pain may come to-morrow!

WHO WILL CARE.

Who will care?

When we lay beneath the daisies,
Underneath the churchyard mold,
And the long grass o'er our faces
Lays its fingers damp and cold;
When we sleep from care and sorrow,
And the ills of earthly life-
Sleep, to know no sad to-morrow,
With its bitterness of strife-
Who will care?

Who will care?

Who will come to weep above us,
Lying, oh! so white and still,
Underneath the skies of summer,
When all nature's pulses thrill
To a new life, glad and tender,

Full of beauty, rich and sweet, And the world is clad in splendor That the years shall e'er repeat— Who will care?

Who will care?

Who will think of white hands lying
On a still and silent breast,