THE FLIGHT OF TIME.

BY REV. H. WINSLOW.

How fleeting and changing is Time!

LREADY are the youthful and merry dances of Spring succeeded by the sober step of grey Autumn. Another year has passed its season of youth and manhood, and is fast descending to the great tomb of time. How soon-how very soon shall we mortals have done for ever with this world! It is a thought that has pressed heavily upon reflecting minds of every age. The great Lyrist of Venusia often adverted to it with inimitable sweetness and elegance and so deeply were the sentiments of human frailty and vanity impressed upon his spirits, that even while sitting at the royal banquet of Augustus, Virgil being seated on the

other side, the Emperor is said to have exclaimed, Ego sum inter suspiria et lacrymas—“ I am sitting between tears and sighs."

He

Yet Horace was a follower of Epicurus. derived no other inference from the brevity and shortness of life, than that it is wise to fill the cup and intoxicate with pleasure as fast as possible, since all will so soon be over! O had that fine intellect been illumined by the light, and sanctified by the grace of Christianity-but I forbear. If ever my spirit sighs, it is when I think of such minds descending to the tomb in the darkness and corruption of Pagan night.

As a specimen of the operations of his mind upon the shortness and vanity of life, I have selected the following ode.

For the use of the English reader, as well as for the purpose of consecrating the sentiments to a higher end than was contemplated by the poet, I have made the following free translation, and applied the whole to a Christian purpose.

Stern winter hides his frowning face,

His frost dissolves again;

Soft spring steps forth with gentle grace,
And smiles upon the plain.

The rivers burst their icy bands,
The birds resume their song;

The laughing Nymphs, now joining hands,
Dance merrily along.

Ah! fleeting are the scenes of earth:
How swift the moments fly!

Scarce do they spring to joyous birth

Ere they begin to die.

While Spring breathes sweetly from the north Burnt Summer hastens on;

Then Autumn pours his bounty forth,

And Lo! the year is done.

The beauties of the vernal sky

Shall hastening moons restore; But in the dust vain man must lie To rise and bloom no more.

The choicest blessings earth can give,
For transient use were made:

'Tis but a fleeting day we live,

Then turn to dust and shade.

AN AUTUMN THOUGHT.

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

AUTHOR OF "VIEWS A-FOOT."

ERE arches high the forest's golden ceiling
And hides the heaven of blue,

Save where a dim and lonely ray is stealing
The twining branches through.

Here, mossed with age, stands many a grey old column,
That props the mighty hall;

Naught breaks the silence, undisturbed and solemn,
Save when the dry leaves fall.

The world's annoyings to the wide air flinging,
Alone I tread its floor:

What joy, to feel a purer thought upspringing,
Within the wood once more!

Here the good angels that my childhood guarded,
Come to my side again,

And by their presence is my soul rewarded

For many an hour of pain.