RETROSPECTION.

The phantoms have flown which I cherished;
  The dreams which delighted have passed;
My castles in air have all perished—­
  I grieved o’er the fall of the last.

’Twas bright, but as frail as a shadow;
  It passed like a vapor away—­
As the mist which hangs over the meadow
  Dissolves in the sun’s burning ray.

The joys of my youth are all shattered;
  My hopes lie in wrecks on the shore;
The friends of my childhood are scattered;
  Their faces I’ll see never more.

Some are estranged, some have gone under;
  The battle of life is severe. 
When I stand by their graves, the wonder,
  The mystery, seems to be clear: 

They were vet’rans more noble than I;
  And placed in the van of the fight,
They fell where the hero would die,
  When he bleeds for truth and the right.

The battle of life is proceeding—­
  The rear will advance to the van;
I’ll follow where duty is leading,
  And fall at my post like a man.

ACROSTIC

To Miss Florence Wilson M’NAMEE.

Maiden, lovely, young and gay,
In the bloom of life’s young May! 
Sweet perfumes are in the air;
Songs of gladness ev’rywhere!

Flowers are springing round thy way,
Lovely flowers, bright and gay: 
Over head and all about
Rings one constant joyous shout! 
Earth is carpeted with green,
Nature greets you as her queen. 
Call the trees and flow’rs your own,
Each will bow before your throne. 
While in youth’s enchanting maze,
Incline thy steps to wisdom’s ways! 
Lead a quiet peaceful life;
Swiftly fly from noise and strife;
Own thy Lord before mankind;
’Neath his banner you will find
More than all this world can give;
Contentment while on earth you live,
Nearer to your journey’s end,
All your aspirations tend: 
May you end your days in peace;
Earthly ties in joy release;
Eternally thy joys increase;
    That this may be thy joyous lot
    Ever prays thy friend D. Scott.

THE BOOK OF BOOKS.

    Written on a blank leaf of a Bible presented to Martha Cowan, June
    1st, 1868.

        Esteemed young friend
        This book I send,
I know full well thou wilt receive;
        For thou canst read
        Its shining creed,
And understand it and believe.

        Oh could I say
        As much to-day,
What joys would thrill this heart of grief,—­
        I do believe. 
        Oh Lord, receive
My prayer—­help thou mine unbelief!

        This book though small,
        Is more than all
The wealth of India to thee;
        Oh priceless treasure! 
        Rich beyond measure
Are all who build their hopes on thee.