O, we join the great hymn that like incense doth float,
While the lark sings aloft in his tiny sky-boat,
As he preludes so soft, then like clear bell doth ring-
O, how lovely is earth in the vesture of spring!

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

October's ruddy gold is dim, and, lo! November's here With sunbeams wan to light the woods that lie so cold and drear;

The ferns are drooping in decay, alas! all beauty's fled;

Sad Robin, from yon willow spray, proclaims the flowers are dead.

Ah, me, how swift hath flown the year-the year sweet springtime brought;

How soon the snowdrops died away-blue violets bloomed unsought.

O how we wasted sunny gleams; now all those gleams are fled, And the wailing winds and weeping rains, harp out-The flowers are dead.

The violet died 'mid April gleams, the primrose in sweet May,
And wild dogrose in July dreamed her lovely life away;
Then blooming purple heather glowed o'er moor and distant fell,
And the harebell and forget-me-not grew round cool woodland
well.

Then yellow Autumn brought her corn, and nursed the last wildflowers,

And tinged the deep-bronzed fading leaf, soon, soon, to fall in showers.

For their glory was but for a day, like transient shadows fled; Now weird winds sigh, amid sad skies-ah me, the flowers are dead.

The flowers are dead, sobs out the rain that cold and cheerless falls;

The flowers are dead, sighs echo's voice among old castle walls; 'Tis whispered by each leaf that falls upon its dreary bed, And the angry streamlet, rushing by, wails out-The flowers are dead!

The flowers are dead, weeps woman's voice-dead are my flowerets too;

The spring will bring earth's flowers again, and skies so soft and blue,

But the lost and lovely laid in earth what spring can e'er restore? They come not though the snowdrop waves on little graves once

more.

The flowers are dead, weeps manhood's voice-the youths and maidens fair

The maiden in her springtime soft drooping so sadly there ;
The rosy tinge on her sweet face-alas, now it is fled,

And the grief bursts of our weeping eyes proclaim our flower is dead.

The flowers are dead, sighs out the rain, that dreary, softly falls. The flowers are dead, sigh winds in vain, through drear December's halls;

"Tis echoed, as the rushing stream foams o'er his boulder bed, And the voice of Nature weeping wails -The lovely flowers are dead.

Be still, sad heart, your flowers are safe, far, far from sin and

woe

Safe in the garden of your God where streams immortal flow
Safe in the everlasting arms-oh, who could wish them here?
We'll meet them when the springtime dawns of God's eternal
year.

THE WOODLAND WELL.

Far in this deep, sequestered shade,
How cool thy waters swell;
Within this green, untrodden glade
Thou springest, woodland well.

The waving grasses fringe thy brink,
Forget-me-nots doth dwell,
And Robin dips his bill to drink
At thee, sweet woodland well.

O'er thee wild roses clustering hing,
Witch-hazel throws her spell,
And rich and clear doth blackbird sing
Near thee, sweet woodland well.

A little ruulet, oozing slow,

Drips, drips thy gold-green cell;
Through velvet mosses thou dost flow,
Pure, crystal woodland well.

No sun-glint ever tans thy face,
So deep thy cup-like dell;
Dark water-spiders love the chase
O'er thee, dim woodland well.

From adamantine caves of earth,
Chain-bound by Nature's spell,
At God's command thou gushed forth,
Untainted, woodland well.

O, woodland well, still brimming up,
One draught-my heart-strings swell;
I bless thy silver-chalaced cup,
Thrice holy, woodland well.

O, woodland well, full, flowing o'er,
Still Heaven's pure dews distill,
Immortal live in memory's core,
Sweet boyhood's woodland well.

ROBERT S. TURNER

AS born in Aberdeen sometime in 1848

Wa His father, a captain in the merchant navy

died while the subject of our sketch was in boyhood. The education of her son was carefully attended to by the widowed mother, who sent him to the Grammar School in Aberdeen, where he made satisfactory progress. When about fourteen years of age he entered a commercial house in the Granite City, but having no aptitude for figures he, after having been for some years at the desk, gave up all idea of a business life. Being of a studious bent of mind he essayed the ministry, and accordingly we find him studying in 1867-8 at Trinity College, Glenalmond. Mr Turner was a keen observer of Nature, and a ready speaker and writer.

A friend who furnished us with particulars of Mr Turner says:" Recollections of numerous quiet woodland strolls in the summers of long ago, with one whose friendship and literary abilities we valued, come to us as we sit under the shadow of the fullleaved poplars. We give the only poems of his we have in our possession, although we know he has many others—one in particular, entitled "The Hermit," of some 400 lines, which we greatly ad

mired and readily found a place for in the poet's corner of a paper we at one time edited."

A SUMMER REVERIE.

O! time of sunshine! passing fair
Sweet hours that lure from toil away,
Ye make our weary hearts seem gay-
Still burdened with life's weight of care.

Here, as the chimeless hours flit by,
Far from the city's feverish din,

Its deeds of shame, its haunts of sin-
In peaceful solitude I lie.

'Mid sunshine that no miser hand

In lust can bury from the sight-
The gift of Him whose self is Light-
The Light that lighteth every land.

To-day upon a hundred fields

That ripeneth wave their promised good;
The garden of our toil-our food-
Our God His sunshine blessing yields.

O! welcome time! when most the soul-
The wearied mind-the feverish brain-
In Nature's life feels joy again,
In oneness with the mighty whole.

O! time unending! bless unthought!
Oh, harvest ripening 'mid our tears!
Whose advent with our growing years
Still brightens with fair promise fraught.

LOOKING BACK.

Oh! years, with what memories are ye laden
Still fresh within our hearts to-day-
Memories, that as the sunlight fading,
Ever linger in the far away-
In looking back.

Each year's sunset, with its bright reflection-
With its mellow ray of glory,

Ever kindles in our heart some recollection-
As we read life's mournful story
In looking back.

Of hallowed times, whose impress on the mind
The flight of years cannot efface,

But deep'neth, as our manhood leaves behind
Its childhood's beauty, and its grace-
In looking back.

And thus in thought from out the haze of years
Whose living present long hath set

In memory's colours richly wrought appears
Such semblance as outlives forget-
In looking back.

And things, long hidden in the past of time,
With all their reminiscence dear,
Bright as the sunshine of an eastern clime
In fancy's mystic light appear
In looking back.

WILLIAM WILSON

WAS a native of Crieff, and early in life worked

as a lapper in Dundee, editing at the same time a fortnightly periodical called the Literary Olio, to which he contributed, both in prose and verse, several able compositions. This was in the year 1824. Subsequently he started business in Edinburgh as a coal commission agent. In that city he resided till 1833, selling coal and writing verses for the Edinburgh Literary Journal and other periodicals. 1834 he emigrated to the United States, and settled down in Poughkeepsie as a publisher, bookbinder, and bookseller, and died there at a ripe old age in 1860.

In

Wilson possessed a cultured literary taste, and was endowed in no stinted measure with those natural qualities which enter into the equipment of a true poet. He was master of beautiful classical Scotch,