The fox his hill-side cell forsakes, The muskrat leaves his nook, The blue-bird in the meadow brakes Is singing with the brook. "Bear up, O Mother Nature!" cry Bird, breeze, and streamlet free, "Our winter voices prophesy Of summer days to thee!" So in the winters of the soul, By bitter blasts and drear, O'erswept, from memory's frozen pole, Will sunny days appear, Reviving Hope and Faith, they show The soul its living powers, And low beneath the winter's snow Lie gems of summer flowers. The night is mother of the day, The winter of the spring, And ever upon old decay The greenest mosses cling; Behind the cloud the starlight lurks, Through showers the sunbeams fall; For God, who loveth all his works, Has left his Hope with all. BY THE AUTHOR OF "GRANTLEY MANOR." SILENCE. What a strange power there is in _silence_! How many resolutions are formed--how many sublime conquests effected during that pause, when the lips are closed, and the soul secretly feels the eye of her Maker upon her! When some of those cutting, sharp, blighting words have been spoken which send the hot indignant blood to the face and head, if those to whom they are addressed keep silence, look on with awe, for a mighty work is going on within them, and the Spirit of Evil, or their Guardian Angel, is very near to them in that hour. During that pause they have made a step toward heaven or toward hell, and an item has been scored in the book which the day of judgment shall see opened. They are the strong ones of the earth, the mighty for good or for evil, those who know how to keep silence when it is a pain and a grief to them; those who give time to their own souls, to wax strong against temptation; or to the powers of wrath, to stamp upon them their withering passage. BY CURRER BELL. TIME. Life, believe, is not a dream So dark as sages say; Oft a little morning rain Foretells a pleasant day. Sometimes there are clouds of gloom, But these are transient all; If the shower will make the roses bloom, O why lament its fall? Rapidly, merrily, Life's sunny hours flit by, Gratefully, cheerily, Enjoy them as they fly! What though Death at times steps in, And calls our _best_ away? What though sorrow seems to win, O'er hope, a heavy sway? Yet hope again elastic springs, Unconquered, though she fell: Still buoyant are her golden wings, Still strong to bear us well. Manfully, fearlessly, The day of trial bear, For gloriously, victoriously, Can courage quell despair! REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. _Vanity Fair, a Novel without a Hero. By W. M. Thackeray. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 8vo._