it fell on the dewy grass.
A love is but half a love,
That contents itself with less
Than love's utmost faith and truth
And love's unwavering tenderness.

Only this walk to the stile--
This parting word by the river;
It seems to me whatever shall go or come--
Memory shall hold forever!
Sweetheart, good bye, good bye,
After all--drear poverty and toil
For the rich, red flower of love to grow,
Were but a cold and barren soil:
And so, good bye, good bye!

THE MYSTIC CLOCK.

A NEW YEAR'S POEM.

"Warden, wind the clock again!
Mighty years are going on
Through the shadows, joy and pain,
And the happy hearted dawn."

High within Time's temple hoar
Doth this mystic timepiece stand,
And when'er twelve moons have vanished
The clock is wound by unseen hand;
But we hear the pinions rushing
Through the storied air o'erhead,
And our hearts grow sick and silent
With throbs of fear and dread;
For the temple seemeth crowded
With still forms all white and shrouded,
Like the pale, uncoffined dead;
Stirs the startled soul within
With a grief too deep for tears,
Bowing with a mighty anguish--
O'er our dead and wasted years.

* * * * *

"Warden, wind the clock again!"
O'er the horologe's mystic dial,
Watch the sweep of shadowy ages
Ere the pens of seers and sages
Wrote men's deeds on fadeless pages.
But lo! the warden winds again--
And see yon radiant star arise
Flaming in the Orient skies;
Hear the grand, glad, chorus ringing,
Which the joyous hosts are singing,
To the humble shepherds, keeping
Patient watch, while kings are sleeping!
See the wise men in the manger,
Bow before the Heavenly stranger!
Lowliest born beneath the sun!
Yet He the jeweled throne shall banish,
And the sword and sceptre vanish,
Ere His given work be done!

* * * * *

"Warden, wind the clock again!"
But in vain the charge is given,
For see the mighty Angel stand,
One foot on sea, and one on land,
Swearing with uplifted hand,
Nevermore in earth or heaven
Shall the mystic key be found
Or the mighty clock be wound!

"RUBE" AND "WILL."

AN EPISODE RELATED BY AUNT SHEBA.

He'ah dat ole gray sinna
H's jes brimful o' gas,
Singin' dat tomfool ditty
As he goes hobblin' pas'!
He betta be prayin' and mebbe
H'll git in de fold at las'!
Yes, he's gwine to de grabe up yonder
By de trees dar on de hill,
Where all alone by hisself one day
He buried