nor can see, to whom be honor and power everlasting.” * * * * * THE GRAVE’S PALE ROSES. BY C. F. ORNE. On the couch of her suffering, meekly, Like a lily so wan and pale, She lay in her trance-like slumber, A slumber for bliss or bale. _He_ sat and watched beside her, To whom her young life was dear, From his eyes the sad dew of sorrow Fell silently, tear by tear. The hours passed unseen and unheeded Till the dawning grew bright in the skies, Then her white lids, with languid unclosing, Revealed the soft light of her eyes. She pressed the last kiss on his forehead, And murmured in music so low, “On my grave plant the pale blooming roses That only a summer-life know.” She slept: and they laid her with weeping, In the greenwood so solemn and still: He placed on her grave the pale roses Whose life bears no winter wind’s chill. As he knelt there what bathed his wan forehead, So gently the rose-petals moved? The sigh of the breeze that swept o’er them, Or the spirit of her he had loved? When spring came again to the greenwood, Ah—a flowerless sod was there!— The _new wife_ wore the pale blooming roses In the wreaths of her raven hair. * * * * * ON SAN FRANCISCO’S SPLENDID BAY. BY THOMAS G. SPEAR. On San Francisco’s splendid bay The weary hours I while away, And think me of the days, no more, I passed upon a dearer shore. When time began to stretch the chain Of which a few worn links remain, To tell me that at fate’s command, While years on years are rolling by, They, too, must strew life’s desert strand, Like leaves when Autumn’s blast is nigh. Where azure hills o’erlook the seas, I sit me down and feel the breeze Fresh from the billows, wild and nigh, Borne through a bright and boundless sky, And musing gaze the landscape o’er From rolling height to sandy shore, And hail the beautiful and grand, Blent with the softest light and shade, In Freedom’s gold-encumbered land, The seat of empire and of trade.