They bear me back—they bear me back, To the field of youth and its flow’ry track; When my step was light, and my heart was bold, And my first young love was not yet cold; And I gaze on many a smiling brow, That sleeps in the still old church-yard now. It wrung my heart—oh! it wrung my heart, When I saw them one by one depart; And they cost me full many a tear of wo, For my hopes then hung on the things below. But the visions of earthly joy grow dim, With the whitening hair and the failing limb. I am old and gray—I am old and gray, But I’ve strength enough left me to kneel and pray; And morning and evening I bless the power That ’woke me to light in the midnight hour, That spared me, to gaze with an aged eye On a hope that can never fade or die. I am gliding on—I am gliding on, Through a quiet night, to a golden dawn: And the merry hearts that around me play, Are star-beams to cheer up my lonely way: And oh! may the waves of life’s dark sea, Deal gently with them, as they’ve dealt with me. * * * * * IDA BERNSTORF’S JOURNAL. BY ENNA DUVAL. “And what is this, Miss Enna?” said my friend, Kate Wilson, one morning, as she sat before the old writing-desk, opening with curiosity the different packages. “What a romantic name,” she continued, “‘Letters and Journal of Ida Bernstorf;’ letters from Germany long years ago. Come, Miss Enna, do please, stop that tiresome letter, and tell me all about it.” “Read the letters and journal, Kate,” I replied, “they tell the story themselves.” “No, no,” said the impatient beauty, “that will not do; _you_ must tell me the story, and read me the Journal, it will sound so much prettier. I have not disturbed you for more than the hour you asked for. See, my little Geneva monitor will bear witness;” and she held up her tiny watch to prove her assertion. My letter-clasp being filled to overflowing, I had stipulated that morning with Kate, to give me one hour to answer two or three of these letters, that my conscience might feel relieved; that being done, I promised to entertain her to the best of my ability. With playful willfulness she rolled my large chair away from my writing-table, chanting in merry notes— “Up, up, my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you’ll grow double! Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks— Why all this toil and trouble?”