Maker of all, we thee intreat,
Before the joyful light descend,
That thou with wonted mercy great
Us as our keeper would'st defend.

Let idle dreams be far away,
And vain illusions of the night;
Repress our foe, least that he may
Our bodies to foul lust incite.

Let this, O Father, granted be,
Through our dear Saviour's boundless merit,
Who doth for ever live with thee,
Together with the Holy Spirit.

Him whom the earth, the sea, and sky
Worship, adore, and magnify,
And doth this threefold engine steer,
Mary's pure closet now doth bear.
Whom sun and moon, and creatures all,
Serving at times, obey his call;
Pouring from heaven his sacred grace,
I' th' virgin's bowels hath ta'ne place.
Mother most blest by such a dower,
Whose Maker, Lord of highest power,
Who this wide world in hand contains,
In thy womb's ark himselfe restrains.
Blest by a message from heaven brought,
Fertile with Holy Ghost full fraught;

BY THOMAS H. SHREVE .

Whence, and why art thou here, mysterious mound?
Are questions which man asks, but asks in vain;
For o'er thy destinies a night profound,
All rayless and all echoless, doth reign.
A thousand years have passed like yesterday,
Since wint'ry snows first on thy bosom slept,
And much of mortal grandeur passed away,
Since thou hast here thy voiceless vigils kept.

While standing thus upon thy oak-crowned head,

BY OTWAY CURRY .

I know thou art gone to a clime of light
 All starry and gem-besprent—
Beyond the reach of the sunbeam's flight,
 In the far-off firmament.

The spirit, they say, cannot feel regret
 In that strange shining world of bliss,
But, free from pain, will forever forget
 The children of sorrow in this.

Oh! think not my heart one moment could deem
 So lightly of feelings like thine;
Though distant to them thy spirit may seem,
 I know thou art present with mine.

With hands discreet and slow
Richly dress your little woe
While day is nigh;
Veil your burning hair with black,
Weight all your pretty back
With weeds that cry “alack!”
To every passer by.
Make of it day long a becoming show,
Yet he who caused it well doth know
How in dreaming every night,
Your spirit, like a rainbow dight,
Doth dance down sorrow,
With the lewd Harlequin To-morrow.

White flower, holy with beauty,
Grail that the blossoming spirit has filled and riven,
It was twilight with showers, and one star shining
When you were given.

Now morning is here
And rain still falling, —
You will fade, immaculate as at first unfolden
While the last birds are calling.

One made you for his delight
And set you apart;
Only a god and a star
Have looked on your heart.

Flora upon a time
Naked Alcides' statue did behold,
And with delight admir'd each amorous limb,
Only one fault she said could be of't told:
For by right simmetry
The crafts-man had him wrong'd,
To such tall joynts a taller-club belong'd,
The club hung by his thigh:
To which the statuary did reply,
Fair nymph, in ancient days your holes by far,
Were not so hugely vast as now they are.

BY LEWIS F. THOMAS .

Oh Ione! oh Ione! my heart's long lov'd ideal ,
The cherish'd idol of my soul, all beautiful and real;
Oh, thou hast been through days of gloom and many months of care,
The theme of one enduring thought — my hope and my despair.
Though' like a moth, I have been lur'd from genial air and skies,
To flit awhile beneath the light that shone from other eyes,
Yet hath their fire ne'er scathed me, and thine have shed the ray,
The holy sunshine of the soul, that lit my being's day.

BY WILLIAM B. FAIRCHILD .

Oh, beautiful, most beautiful
Each impulse of the heart,
Ere care hath twined its meshes round
And planted there its dart —
When youthful blood is coursing through
Each clear, transparent vein,
With a beauty and a mystery
That spurn at reason's rein.

Oh, then the " tell-tale countenance "
Each thought embodies forth,
And like the gems of night, the eyes

Why with so piteous a melancholy
And with so inconsolable a plaint,
As though your wistful heart were broken wholly,
Within your bosom quaint,
Do you, my little gossip of the air,
Make all the night to ring,
With your lorn quavering
As for some ancient, irremediable despair?
O-o-o! O-o-o-o!
Do you not know?