WE ARE BUT TWO-the others sleep

Through death's untroubled night;

We are but two-O, let us keep
The link that binds us bright.

Heart leaps to heart-the sacred flood That warms us is the same;

That good old man-his honest blood Alike we fondly claim.

F

88

66

THE BROTHERS.

We in one mother's arms were locked-
Long be her love repaid;

In the same cradle we were rocked,
Round the same hearth we played.

Our boyish sports were all the same,
Each little joy and wo;—
Let manhood keep alive the flame,

Lit up so long ago.

WE ARE BUT TWO-be that the band

To hold us till we die;

Shoulder to shoulder let us stand,

Till side by side we lie.

SONNET.

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

My friend, adown Life's valley, hand in hand, With grateful change of grave and merry speech Or song, our hearts unlocking each to each,

We'll journey onward to the silent land;

And when stern Death shall loose that loving band, Taking in his cold hand a hand of ours,

The one shall strew the other's grave with flowers, Nor shall his heart a moment be unmanned.

My friend and brother! if thou goest first,

Wilt thou no more re-visit me below?
Yea, when my heart seems happy causelessly
And swells, not dreaming why, as it would burst
With joy unspeakable,—my soul shall know

That thou, unseen, art bending over me.

SPRING.

BY GEORGE HILL.

Now Heaven seems one bright rejoicing eye,
And Earth her sleeping vesture flings aside,

And with a blush awakes as does a bride;

And Nature speaks, like thee, in melody.

The forest, sunward, glistens, green and high;

The ground each moment, as some blossom springs,

Puts forth, as does thy cheek, a lovelier dye,

And each new morning some new songster brings.

And hark! the brooks their rocky prisons break

And echo calls on echo to awake,

Like nymph to nymph. The air is rife with wings,

Rustling through wood or dripping over lake.

TO MISS M.

BY FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.

I KNOW that thou art beautiful,—
In dreams I see thy face,

I see its dimples come and go
Like light in frolic grace.

Thy rich eyes steal before mine own
'Neath lashes long and dark,
And on thy softly rounded cheek,
The maiden bloom I mark.

And why is this? what wizard spell
Hath touched with prophet power
My fancy thus a simple thing-

A tone-a word-a flower!

I heard thy voice-so gayly sweet

I could not choose to guess,

The mouth that breath'd it wreath'd with smiles

Of playful loveliness.

It spoke to one whose tiny lips