Then feel for th’ pris’ner, sick and blind— E’en the forest-rose, the desert-tree, The sprig of grass, kissed by the wind, Receive its kindest sympathy. Oh, Summer’s night—man’s Eden hours! All Nature thrills with thy delight, Th’ greenwood, rocky streams and flowers, Th’ murm’ring sea, th’ beach, the mountain height. Then give thy soul’s gratitude to Him Who made the orb “to rule the night,” And with the prayer of Cherubim Pour forth thy heart’s inmost delight. And learn to feel for another’s wo, While to Heaven thou breath’st thy prayer— Foul _prejudice_ from thy breast forego, And let _sympathy_ reign ever there. * * * * * [Illustration: THE DEATH OF THE YEAR. Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by W. E. Tucker] * * * * * THE DEATH OF THE YEAR. BY HENRY B. HIRST. [SEE ENGRAVING.] It was a dreary night In the latter years of time, When a man, with shrunken limbs And a forehead white with rime— With the rime of weary hours Whose paths were not of flowers— And a beard of snowy white, Walked slowly through the night. Pale Hecate, overhead, Shone coldly on his brow; His eye was sunken and dim, His cheek had lost its glow, But his step, so full of pride,— The manhood of his stride, Gave this antiquated thing The appearance of a king. The moon went sadly down To a level with his way, And the heavens became opprest With vapors dark and gray As Saturn, with his beard, And glass, and scythe, appeared: The old man journeyed on, Growing weaker and more wan. Like a shadow, on his path With a silence, such as dwells In the desolate dell of death Where we hear not even our knells, Did Saturn slowly pass With his fatal scythe and glass: The traveler looked not back, But kept steadily on his track. From the earth which lay below, Until then so black and dumb, Came the roar of many a gun, With the roll of many a drum, And the mingling strains of lute, Clarion, cymbal, fife and flute; And among them, like a knell, Rose the clamor of a bell! The wanderer heard the sound, And with patient, suffering eyes Gazed reproachfully on high, Through the dark, unpitying skies; But Saturn raised his steel And the old man ceased to feel; And they laid along his bier The cadaverous Old Year. * * * * * THE COTTAGE. BY J. HUNT, JR.