AWAY in the mist of past ages, The _was-life_ of wondrous renown-- (Which lives but in History's pages, And the tales which Traditions hand down, Or in marbles that still o'er us frown)-- Yet looks as if towering away Far above all the _Is_ or _To-be_ And a power still seemeth to sway, Though the present convulse to be free, And the future no prophet-eyes see. But only it seemeth--not real! A shadowy monster untruth! An image of vapors ideal, That floats in the sky of our youth, Ere we see with strong visions in sooth! And thus, while we gaze it departs, And a better, a nobler appears; The _Is-life_ more wonderful starts From its home in the heavenly spheres, And fills us with hopes and with fears! And we rise, while our hearts strongly beat, And say to our fears, all begone! They vanish, like clouds that retreat Before the all-conquering sun-- And we nerve for the deeds to be done! Ah! now does the youth feel his strength! See his cheeks, how they glow! and his eye, How it sparkles and gleams! till at length His soul reaches out to the sky, And his thoughts through the universe fly! And his steps are elastic as air, Yet consciously proud--and his tread Over ruins of temples that were-- And religion whose priesthoods are dead, Is as if _there_ no prayer had been said. The _Is-life_ is now all to him! With a glance toward the future, inspired He moves with his might every limb-- His soul with ambition is fired-- And he grows in his task never tired. He triumphs! The truth is his sword, And the _shams_ and the _phantoms_ that are, Shrink back to antiquity's horde, To be buried with falsehoods that were, Whilst fame everlasting's his share! Oh! the _Is_ is the life then for me! The _Was_ had its tasks and its men; And others will crowd the _To-be_, And laugh at all this that hath been-- But to me, what matters it then? * * * * * THE LAST MOMENTS. BY R. GRIFFIN STAPLES. IT was a beauteous eve! On high, The moon's bright silver ray, And stars gleamed softly down, to guide The traveller's weary way. Gently the balmy breath of night Sighed o'er the distant lea, And birds their cheerful warblings hushed With eve's serenity. The shades of death were falling slow Within a chamber, where A meek one lay, and, sinking, gazed Into a world more fair. Sweet hour for one so pure to die, To pass from earth away To that bright land where naught corrupts, And all is "perfect day." "Father!" she breathed, "Thy will be done!" And closed her eyes in death; "Father!" re-echoed through the sky, "Thy will be done on earth!" OUR PRACTICAL DRESS INSTRUCTOR.