Where'er our footsteps fall upon the shore,
They that were sleeping rise from out the dust
Of death's long, silent years, and round us stand
As erst they did before the prison tomb

Received their clay within its voiceless halls.
The heavens that bend above that land are hung
With clouds of various hues. Some dark and chill,
Surcharged with sorrow, cast their somber shade
Upon the sunny, joyous land below.

Others are floating through the dreamy air,
White as the falling snow, their margins tinged
With gold and crimsoned hues; their shadows fall
Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes,

Soft as the shadow of an angel's wing.

When the rough battle of the day is done,

And evening's peace falls gently on the heart,

I bound away, across the noisy years,

Unto the utmost verge of memory's land,

Where earth and sky in dreamy distance meet,
And memory dim with dark oblivion joins;

Where woke the first remembered sounds that fell
Upon the ear in childhood's early morn;

And, wandering thence along the rolling years,
I see the shadow of my former self

Gliding from childhood up to man's estate.

The path of youth winds down through many a vale,
And on the brink of many a dread abyss,
From out whose darkness comes no ray of light,
Save that a phantom dances o'er the gulf
And beckons toward the verge. Again the path
Leads o'er the summit where the sunbeams fall;
And thus in light and shade, sunshine and gloom,
Sorrow and joy, this life-path leads along.

IMPRESSIONS OF NIAGARA.-CHARLES DICKENS.

We were at the foot of the American fall. I could see an immense torrent of water tearing headlong down from some great height, but had no idea of shape, or situation, or anything but vague immensity.

When I was seated in the little ferry boat, and was crossing the swollen river immediately before both cataracts, I

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began to feel what it was; but I was in a manner stunned,
and unable to comprehend the vastness of the scene.
It was
not until I came on Table Rock, and looked-Great Heaven,
on what a fall of bright, green water!-that it came upon me
in its full might and majesty.

Then, when I felt how near to my Creator I was standing, the first effect and the enduring one-instant and lastingof the tremendous spectacle, was peace. Peace of mind, tranquillity, calm recollections of the dead, great thoughts of eternal rest and happiness; nothing of gloom or terror. Niagara was at once stamped upon my heart, an image of beauty; to remain there, changeless and indelible, until its pulses cease to beat forever.

Oh, how the strife and trouble of daily life receded from my view and lessened in the distance, during the memorable days we passed on that enchanted ground! What voices spoke from out the thundering water; what faces, faded from earth, looked out upon me from its gleaming depths; what heavenly promise glistened in those angels' tears, the drops of many hues, that showered around, and twined themselves about the gorgeous arches which the changing rainbows made!

I never stirred in all that time from the Canadian side, whither I had gone at first. I never crossed the river again; for I knew there were people on the other shore, and in such a place it is natural to shun strange company. To wander to and fro all day, and see the cataracts from all points of view, to stand upon the edge of the great Horseshoe Fall, marking the hurried water gathering strength as it approached the verge, yet seeming, too, to pause before it shot into the gulf below, to gaze from the river's level up at the torrent as it came streaming down; to climb the neighbor ing heights and watch it through the trees, and see the wreathing water in the rapids hurrying on to take its fearful plunge; to linger in the shadow of the solemn rocks three miles below, watching the river, as, stirred by no visible cause, it heaved and eddied and awoke the echoes, being troubled yet, far down beneath the surface, by its giant leap; to have Niagara before me, lighted by the sun and by the moon, red in the day's decline, and gray as evening slowly

fell upon it; to look upon it every day, and wake up in the night and hear its ceaseless voice,—this was enough.

I think in every quiet season now, still do those waters roll and leap, and roar and tumble, all day long; still are the rainbows spanning them, a hundred feet below. Still, when the sun is on them, do they shine and glow like molten gold. Still, when the day is gloomy, do they fall like snow, or seem to crumble away like the front of a great chalk-cliff, or roll down the rock like dense white smoke. But always does the mighty stream appear to die as it comes down, and always from its unfathomable grave arises that tremendous ghost of spray and mist which is never laid,—which has haunted this place with the same dread solemnity since darkness brooded on the deep, and that first flood before the deluge-light--came rushing on creation at the word of God.

THE OLD-TIME SLEIGH-RIDE.

Ho, girls, for a frolic! The sleigh's at the gate;
And, all tricked for her bridal, the world is elate.
The steeds paw the snow as they tug at the reins,

And the dewdrops of music are tossed from their manes.
Shawl, sealskin, and boa snatch up for the fray,

Swift toilets are only in order to-day.

Now, in with you, Molly, Meg, Fanny, and Ma,

Settle down in the robes; put your feet in the straw;

Here, Nell, Sue, and Kitty, the middle seat take.

Hurrah! Now the whip; give them head, Uncle Jake!
Hurrah! Did you ever such jollity know

As a sleigh full of girls and a first coat of snow?

Bump! bump! swish and swish! Now we glide like a ship.
What sounds are the gayest,-from sleighbell or lip?
How the whitecaps of hedge, fence, and hay-stack so brave
Rise, gleam, and are gone, like the foam of the wave!
Like petrels, the snow-buntings flash on our lee,
And the pine woods awake, like the roar of the sea,
Hold hard, or you're overboard! Ha! what a lurch!
Hug the hedge, Captain Jake, or we're foul of that church!
The toll-gate is open, the pennies are tossed,
The portals are sundered, the barriers crossed.
Hurrah! Was there ever such voyaging free
Since Arion rode, dolphin-back, o'er the sea?

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Swish, swish! now the runners their polish have got,
How we leap on the wings of this time-scoruing trot!
Our steeds snort amain, and their breath as they go
Is blent with the spray of the hoof-beaten snow.
Barn, farm-house, and arbor flit by, like a dream;
Vails and tippets flaunt wildly, the girls laugh and scream;
The skaters are thick upon river and pond-
Look out for yon bridge and the gully beyond!
By jingo, we're in for it! Stop 'em! Hallo!
Don't yell so,-no danger-there! over we go!
Hurrah! Was there ever such holiday gift
As a roll down a hill to alight in a drift?

Set them up, grab the leaders! Who ever yet heard
Of an old-fashioned ride where no upset occurred?
Here, Molly, Sue, Kitty! where are you, my dears?
Meg's the first out of bed, and there's Fanny in tears!
Tush! here is your bonnet; Nell, help your mamma!
So-in once again 'mong the robes and the straw!
All aboard! Not a rivet is loose in the sleigh;
Let them go, Uncle Jake! we've enough for one day.
Cold feet and cold noses, red cheeks and bright eyes,
Are trophies the gods of the hearth ne'er despise.
Hurrah for the sports over which they preside!
The zest of young life is the old-time sleigh-ride!

I WONDER.

I wonder if ever a song was sung
But the singer's heart sang sweeter!

I wonder if ever a rhyme was rung

But the thought surpassed the meter!

I wonder if ever a sculptor wrought

'Till the cold stone echoed his ardent thought!
Or if ever a painter, with light and shade,
The dream of his inmost heart portrayed!

I wonder if ever a rose was found
And there might not be a fairer!
Or if ever a glittering gem was ground,
And we dreamed not of a rarer!

Ah! never on earth shall we find the best!
But it waits for us in the land of rest;
And a perfect thing we shall never behold
Till we pass the portal of shining gold.

CRIPPLE BEN.-GEORGE L. CATLIN.

Down in a street by the river's side,
Where ebbs and flows the hurrying tide
Of city life, in a squalid den,

Hungry and poor, dwelt "Cripple Ben."
So they called him; no other name
He e'er had boasted since first he came,
Unknown, unnoticed, his care to hide,
In that wretched home by the river's side.
Ragged, one-legged, deformed was he;
His age not over twenty-and-three.

All day long on his crutch he'd go

Through the streets with a painful gait and slow, Vending matches, and pins, and soap,

Ever cheery and full of hope,

Never complaining, never sad,

With an eye so bright, and a face so glad,
In spite of his cares, that folks would pause
In passing, to buy from his little stores;
And children would see his cheery smile
Reflected back in their own the while,
And even the rough, blunt sailor-men
Had always a word for "Cripple Ben."
Yet oft on the pier where the great ships lay
He'd sit and rest on a summer's day,
And peering over the moss-grown brink
On the seething tide below, would think
And wonder if in yon current there

He could bury forever his weight of care.

Nobody cares for me," he'd say;

"I'm weary of toiling every day.
By night a hard and narrow bed,
By day a beggarly crust of bread.
Why not finish it all? And then
Nobody'll miss poor Cripple Ben."

Yet something within him said: "Live on ;
Though thy heart be lonely, thy features wan,
Even for thee it rests in store

To do some good ere thy life is o'er."
So, then, with a sigh of silent pain,
He'd hobble away on his crutch again,

And take up his burden of life once more,
Bravely and patiently as before.