The storm is past, the dream is gone,—
The heart has burst its mournful spell, -
The song of love flows gently on,

Nor fears the saddening word - Farewell!

MARY H. MANN.

Autumn.

THERE is something melancholy, but pleasing to my mind, in the scenes of Autumn. The withered herbage, the yellow and falling leaf-the cold gusts of wind

all remind me of the grave. Yet it is not a gloomy thought. As Autumn, in due season, is followed by Spring, and nature revives from her desolation and is again clothed in the richest verdure-so, to the Christian, with the idea of the grave is associated that of the resurrection, "when this mortal shall put on immortality."

MELVILLE.

Rhymeless Poets.

THERE'S many a heart, the soul of song,
Did but the owner know it,
To music's loftiest tones hath strung;
In all but verse a poet.
Like slumbering echoes lulled by eve,
There's many a spirit lone, that deep
Within the breast may voiceless heave,
And ne'er to thrilled existence leap.

How dreamless swells the dark-sea's breast
Of all her dazzling gems!

Her ocean-stars in radiant rest,

And mermaid diadems.

So sleeps the soul with genius fraught,
In shadowy, dim unknowingness,
While diamond dream and starry thought
Are sparkling in its deep recess.

Flowers.

It

WHY does not everybody, who can afford it, have a geranium in his window ? It is very cheap - its cheapness is next to nothing, if you raise it from seed. sweetens the air, rejoices the eye, links you with nature and innocence, and is something to love. And if it cannot love you in return, it cannot hate; it cannot utter a hateful thing, even for your neglecting it, for, though it is all beauty, it has no vanity, and, such being the case, and living as it does, purely to do you good and afford you pleasure, how will you be able to neglect it? We receive in imagination, the scent of these good-natured leaves, which allow you to carry their perfume on your fingers; for good-natured they are, in that respect, above almost all other plants, and fittest for the hospitalities of your room. The very feel of the leaf has a household warmth in it, and something analogous to clothing and comfort. LIEGH HUNT.

An Epigram.

IN the "Loves of the Angels," 't is sung, that they fled

From the skies, happy mortals to love and to

wed;

If angels wooed mortals, and thought it no sin,
A mortal forgive, who an angel would win!

FLACCUS.

June.

WHO loveth not the month of flowers? If any such exist, it has never been my fortune to meet with one, and I fain would hope I never may. For myself, I love this month with its beauty and gladness, and its ever welcome flowers. It is like the heart of childhood, ever revealing its heavenly birth in the music of its joyousness. And then, too, the calm, still twilight hour, when the voices of the day are hushed, and there is no tone heard save the low voice of the past as it speaketh to the soul.

The deepening shadow, the floating cloud, the balmy breeze, all awaken the hidden feelings of the soul, and

attune our hearts Gladness dwell

to the melody of praise. eth within the bowers of June, and its roses are fair to view. Even "the bonnie white rose," which "is withering and a," is now in beauty robed, emblem of "sadness" though it be. The rose hath ever been "Love's token flower," yet this pale blossom speaks of " sadness," alas! that they should be so often linked.

POETRY OF THE SEASONS.

The St. Lawrence.

EVENING SCENE.

FROM the moment the sun is down, every thing becomes silent on the shore, which our windows overlook, and the murmurs of the broad St. Lawrence, more than two miles wide immediately before us, and