Regard not, sweet, what graybeards tell Of fond, impetuous youth, But trust my faith and constancy, And never doubt my truth— I would not for the world dispel The sunshine from thy brow; Then be mine own this very day, Love’s time, love’s time is now. Ah, yes—’tis true! Love’s time is now, To-morrow may destroy The flowers that bloom so fresh and fair Along the path of joy: Then do not, sweet, an hour delay But at the altar bow, And with consenting hearts we’ll sing Love’s time, love’s time is now. * * * * * HARRY CAVENDISH. BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC. THE DOOM OF THE DART. The day had been close and sultry, but, as sunset drew on, a light breeze sprung up, which diffused a delicious coolness throughout the ship, imparting new vigor to the panting and almost exhausted men. Invigorated by the welcome wind, a group of us gathered on the weather quarter to behold the sun go down; and those who have never seen such a spectacle at sea can have no idea of the vastness with which it fills the mind. Slowly the broad disc wheeled down toward the west, seeming to dilate as it approached the horizon, and, as its lower edge touched the distant seaboard, trailing a long line of golden light across the undulating surface of the deep. At this instant the scene was magnificent. Pile on pile of clouds, assuming every fantastic shape, and varying from red to purple and from purple to gold, lay heaped around the setting god. For a few moments the billows could be seen rising and falling against the broad disc of the descending luminary: while, with a slow and scarcely perceptible motion, he gradually slid beneath the horizon. Insensibly the brilliant hues of the clouds died away, changing from gorgeous crimson, through almost every gradation of color, until at length a faint apple-green invested the whole western sky, slowly fading into a deep azure, as it approached the zenith. “Beautiful!” exclaimed the skipper, “one might almost become poetical in gazing on such a scene.”