LESSONS OF AUTUMN.

"My Father worketh hitherto, and I work."-St. John v. 17.

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DURING the days that have gone since May, the Spring has been lost in Summer, and the Summer has been swallowed up by Autumn, and now, Autumn is solemnly subsiding into Winter. Then we were looking with joy and wonder upon resurrection, transformation, transfiguration, growth, and creation. Then we were witnesses of the annual miracle of causing Aaron's rod to blossom, and of turning water into wine. The new crest of the "wanton lapwing"the brighter iris of the "burnished dove "-" the blue eggs bursting into young robins"-the gaudy, gauzy flies rising through the waters from the aurelia and larvæ which had been their prison-house-the Spring flowers, pure as virgins and spotless as brides-the blossoms of innumerable orchard trees, defying the imitation of the painter, howsoever skilled in colouring-were but specimens of beauteous and vital changes in sea, on earth, and in sky; changes in which all living things participated. Then was the day of promise, and now the reaped fields, the full garners, the stripped fruit trees, show that this is the day of fulfilment. We have, in present possession, what the Spring sweetly told us we should inherit and enjoy; and the earth, satisfied, as it were, with the fruit of her work, is like the labourer in his home at eventide, quietly preparing for that sleep which will invigorate her for a new season of production. Shutting out of sight the spirit-world, and looking only at the tiny orb in the material universe which is our present home, what mighty works appear to have been wrought around us by our Father in heaven since we last met! He has opened all the fountains of life and beauty, and has replenished every cistern, and filled every cup, and has caused some cups to flow over. And now the Supreme Worker

REMINISCENCES OF SWITZERLAND.

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is giving firmness and stability to things feeble and tender; now He is changing the sap of trees into solid wood, and is preparing to seal many of the springs of life with frost and ice, and to cover them with snow, until the fulness of time shall come for opening these life-founts again. Thus has God been working, and thus is He working still; and the thought of Divine activity suggests the question, "And what have we been doing?" Have we been followers of God in our working? Have we wrought wisely and well, begetting and renewing what is useful, and beautiful, and good? Or, looking at ourselves in another relation and aspect, have we blossomed abundantly, and brought forth fruit unto perfection; have we yielded increase; are we now as corn more or less ripe, and ready for the garner; or are we like the chaff which the wind driveth away, and like the withered leaves around us falling?

REMINISCENCES OF SWITZERLAND.

THESE gray majestic cliffs that tower to heaven,
These glimmering glades and open chesnut groves,
That echo to the heifer's wandering bell,

Or woodman's axe, or steersman's song beneath,
As on he urges his fir-laden bark,

Or shout of goat-herd boy above them all,

Who loves not? And who blesses not the light,

When through some loop-hole he surveys the lake,

Blue as a sapphire-stone, and richly set

With chateaux, villages, and village-spires,

Orchards, and vineyards, Alps and alpine snows.

Yet there is,

Within an eagle's flight, and less, a scene
Still nobler, if not fairer, (once again
Would I behold it ere these eyes are closed,

For I can say, "I also have been there!") That sacred lake withdrawn among the hills, Its depth of waters flanked as with a wall Built by the giant race before the flood;

REMINISCENCES OF SWITZERLAND.

Where not a cross or chapel but inspires
Holy delight, lifting our thoughts to God

From God-like men,-men in a barbarous age,
That dared assert their birthright, and displayed

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Deeds half divine, returning good for ill;
That in the desert sowed the seeds of life,
Framing a band of small republics there,
Which still exist, the envy of the world!

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Who would not land in each, and tread the ground;
Land where Tell leaped ashore; and climb to drink
Of the three hallowed fountains? He that does,
Comes back the better.

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THE HOUR OF DEATH.

Lord, make me to know mine end, and the measure of my days, what it is; that I may know how frail I am.”—Psalm xxxix. 4.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,

And stars to set; but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee-but thou art not of those
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

We know when moons shall wane,

When Summer birds from far shall cross the sea,
When Autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain,
But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when Spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?
They have one season-all are ours to die.