come to our hearts in answer to the yearning of our affection, and breathed upon us the heavenly atmosphere of their new home. Sweetly, though sadly, comes their dear remembrance, in hours of joy and sorrow, of smiles and tears--and never perhaps more vividly, than when days come round in which we have been glad together. Long will linger in our hearts the sweetness of a smile, the music of a laugh, the dearness of a loving tone-and so it is, that while to childhood, festivals like the present are days. of unshadowed glee, the maturer heart hears low, sweet voices calling from the past, that make it often a season beautiful only from association, and "merry" only from remembered joy.

MY LITTLE TWIN SISTERS.

BY EVELINA MORRIS.

THEY have large gazelle eyes that are witching and deep,
Where young love and beauty so guilelessly play,
When through their long lashes they winningly peep,

That they'll steal through your heart close it tight as you may;
And so fawnish and sly,

You'll not know how or why.

They have heavy dark ringlets, which carelessly fold
O'er pretty round necks of the softest brunette,
Where dancing they blend shades of dark brown and gold,
The rarest that sunlight can ever beget;

And fondly they nest

Close to beauty's warm breast.

They have sweet little mouths which in contrast disclose
The corals and pearls of the far Indian wave;

And their velvety cheeks took their dye from the rose,
While their wild-ringing laugh shames the echoing cave-
And kindles soul-fire
Like Orpheus's lyre.

When with dimpled arms twined in blithe pastime they roam,
And their steps seem more airy than cool mountain wind-

I think them some shining ones strayed from their home,
For they'd be brightest cherubs had Heaven wings to lend:
They're more pure than the drop
In the white-lily cup.

THE JOURNEY'S CLOSE.

(SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE.)

BY CELIA.

WHERE the fading light is glancing,
See an aged form advancing

O'er a dark and weary way—

With the weight of sorrows bending,
Heavily his lone path wending

Through the twilight of the day,

While the ausky, chilling shadows fitfully around him play!

His scattered locks are long and hoary,
Worn his sandaled feet, and gory,

For the path is rough and steep;
And his mantle, closely gathered,
By a olden girdle tethered-

And his trembling footsteps keep

Resounding ever, like an echo, through the darkness still and deep.

Of his race the last and only,

Onward, drearily and lonely,

Goes he forth with solemn tread

All the light of beauty shaded,

All the joy of being faded,

For the hopes of youth are fled,

And his steps are treading, treading, to the chambers of the Dead!

Lovely was his being's morning
As Aurora's smile, adorning

All the arches of the sky-
Glorious his spirit's lightness,
Beautiful the angel brightness

Of his proud and thoughtful eye!

And the stream of his existence glided swift and joyously!

But there came the frost of sadness,
Chilling every fount of gladness

By its blighting-wasting power;

And the friends his heart had cherished,

One by one decayed and perished,

Like the blossoms of an hour

Like the frail and sickly blossoms drooping in an autumn bower!

Low his gentle ones he buried-
By the savage Spoiler hurried

To a dark, untimely grave;
Lone and hopeless then he wandered,
As his gloomy grief he pondered,

And his heart to mourning gave

Mourning sad and ceaseless as the sighing murmur of the wave

Thus he wandered, sad and weary,
O'er the meadows bleak and dreary—
Through the valley and the glade-
Over hill and rugged mountain,

Nor beside the silver fountain

Lingering in the cooling shade-

Resting never, pressing ever onward where his heart is laid!

Worn with sorrowing and weeping,
While the pains of age are creeping
Fast upon his tottering frame-
And the warmth of day is fleeting,
And the chilling mists are meeting

In the sun's departing flame

On amid the gathered blackness tread his trembling limbs and lame !

Downward, downward, ever wending,
Through the shades of Death descending
To the gateway of the Tomb;
Where the sound of pinions rushing,
And dark waters, deeply gushing,

Comes amid the chasmal gloom

And he faintly, feebly marches on to meet his coming doom.

Goes he forth alone and fearless,

Through the darkness chill and cheerless,

In the dim and narrow way?

Comes no Helper to uphold him?

Not a shelter to enfold him

From the breath of dread Decay?

Must he droop, and faint, and falter, in his lone and dire dismay?

Ope thy eye, unseeing mortal!
By that chamber's dreary portal

See a beckoning spirit stand-
Death's defier, Love's Evangel,
Heaven's serene and smiling angel,
Beckoning with the spirit hand,

Welcoming the lonely wanderer to a new and joyous land!

Lo! around the pilgrim gather
Legions, from his being's Father,

Sent to guide his footsteps frail!
All the way their love has led him,
Through the dark and danger sped him,

That his spirit should not fail

They have watched his weary footfalls thro' the wild and shadowy vale!

See! the portal wide uncloses
There his mortal dust reposes,

In a deep and dreamless sleep;

But the spirit sad and lowly,

In the presence of the Holy

Nevermore shall sigh or weep

Evermore the glorious beauty of Eternal Youth shall keep!

Tremble not when shadows gather,

For the angels of thy Father

Watch beside thee in the gloom;

Never fainting, never sleeping,
Lovingly thy footsteps keeping,

In their passage to the Tomb

In their long and weary passage to the Hills of Endless Bloom!

HUMAN SYMPATHIES.

BY J. R. JOHNSON.

WE are in a world where we need the sympathy of our fellow beings. How cold some are! If they suffer not from the storm themselves, they think not that any one is shelterless, or they care not how many are. If they have a sumptuous table, it is of no moment to them that millions are starving. They can complacently sing "Sweet Home," and lift not up one prayer for the homeless. They can ride in cushioned carriages, and heed not the weary, wandering child of want. Such there are. But, There are those

blessed be God! we can find cheering contrasts. who practically recognize the common brotherhood of the human family. They weep with those who weep, and rejoice with those who rejoice. The blessings of the Redeemer rest upon such, and they will everlastingly rejoice amid the holy sympathies of heaven.

THE BLUE EYES.

BY PAUL CREYTON.

STANDING before a magnificent mirror in the light of brilliant lamps, a young and radiant creature regarded her reflected image with a smile of pleasure. In a ball dress of singular taste and elegance, her silken brown hair falling in luxuriant curls about her snowy neck and glowing cheeks, her graceful bosom heaving with every breath she drew, and her white, delicate and slender hands glittering with jewels, truthfully might the poet have said of her—“ beautiful exceedingly!"

There was beauty in the symmetry of her form-beauty in the sweeping arch of her brows-beauty in the finely chiseled mouth, Grecian nose, and brilliant teeth-but above all, was there a strange, touching, captivating beauty in the pure azure of her large, soft, lustrous eyes.

She smiled, I say, as the faithful mirror flung back to those beaming eyes the light of their own beauty; and through those lovely lips were breathed the half articulate words

"If he will not love me, others shall, at least!"

But at that moment the smile faded from her lips, a sigh heaved her breast, and the shadow of an intrusive thought darkened those eyes of blue.

"If he will not love me!"

She repeated the words, and sinking upon a fanteuil, pressed one of her white, jewelled hands upon her brow. When she removed it, those large eyes flashed out with a deeper blue and a wilder lustre, through the glittering crystal of a tear. This she dashed from her long and fringing lids, and arising majestically, rang for an attendant.

"Has Mr. Sandford returned yet?"

"He just went into the library, ma'am,” replied the woman who appeared.

A moment after, she of the blue eyes opened a small door, which formed the entrance to the apartment whither her husband had retired. He was sitting by a table, nervously fingering the folds of a newspaper, which he appeared little inclined to read.