As

Hears round about him voices as it darkens, And seeing not the forms from which they come, Pauses from time to time, and turns and hearkens ;

So walking here in twilight, O my friends!

I hear your voices, softened by the distance,
And pause, and turn to listen, as each sends
His words of friendship, comfort, and assistance.

If any thought of mine, or sung or told,
Has ever given delight or consolation,
Ye have repaid me back a thousandfold,
By every friendly sign and salutation.

Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown!
Thanks for each kindly word, each silent token,

That teaches me, when seeming most alone,

Friends are around us, though no word be spoken.

A

Kind messages, that pass from land to land;
Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history,
In which we feel the pressure of a hand,-

One touch of fire,- and all the rest is mystery!

The pleasant books, that silently among

Our household treasures take familiar places, And are to us as if a living tongue

Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces!

Perhaps on earth I never shall behold,

With eye of sense, your outward form and semblance; Therefore to me ye never will grow old,

But live for ever young in my remembrance.

Never grow old, nor change, nor pass away!
Your gentle voices will flow on for ever,
When life grows bare and tarnished with decay,
As through a leafless landscape flows a river.

Not chance of birth or place has made us friends,
Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations,
But the endeavour for the selfsame ends,

With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations.

Therefore I hope to join your seaside walk,
Saddened, and mostly silent, with emotion;
Not interrupting with intrusive talk

The grand, majestic symphonies of ocean.

Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest,

At your warm fireside, when the lamps are lighted,

To have my place reserved among the rest,

Nor stand as one unsought and uninvited!

Longfellow.

To the curious eye

A little monitor presents her page

Of choice instruction with her snowy bells,
The lily of the vale. She nor affects

The public walk, nor gaze of mid-day sun :
She to no state or dignity aspires,

But silent and alone puts on her suit,

And sheds a lasting perfume, but for which
We had not known there was a thing so sweet
Hid in the gloomy shade. So, when the blast
Her sister tribes confounds, and to the earth
Stoops their high heads that vainly were exposed,
She feels it not, but flourishes anew,

Still shelter'd and secure. And as the storm,

That makes the high elm couch, and rends the oak, The humble lily spares, a thousand blows