Their shade athwart the sunset glow, Thin vapors cloud the illumined air

And parting day-light lingers there.

But ah, no longer thou art near
This varied loveliness to see,
And I, though fondly lingering here
To-night can only think on thee-
The flowers thy gentle hand caressed
Still lie unwithered on my breast,

And still thy footsteps print the shore
Where thou and I may rove no more.

Again I hear the murmuring fall

Of water from some distant dell,

The beetle's hum, the cricket's call,
And, far away, that evening bell-
Again, again those sounds I hear,

But oh, how desolate and drear
They seem to night-how like a knell
The music of that evening bell.

Again the new moon in the west,
Scarce seen upon yon golden sky,
Hangs o'er the mountain's purple crest
With one pale planet trembling nigh,

And beautiful her pearly light

As when we blessed its beams last night,

But thou art on the far blue sea,

And I can only think on thee.

LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR.

BY THE REV. EDWARD B. HALL.

OUR sympathy with this hour is almost wholly retrospective. It belongs to the Past. It has little association with the morrow. The morrow has a character entirely separate-not less important, but distinct. We may not close our hearts, if they are right toward the Giver we cannot close them, to the greatness and power of a new gift of existence. We all share the natural and ever fresh joy, which an opening year awakens. But the impression is playful and evanescent, compared with the concentration and awe, with which the mind hangs upon the few, not lightly flying, but soberly moving and gazing moments of the parting season. There is power in all seasons, and all impressions are mixed. But there is one element here that belongs to no other. True, it is an association that rests upon a division of time once artificial and wholly conventional. But it has become real. And now it takes hold of the natural and the powerful. It dwells in a deep and sober conviction, that we are waiting to catch the last message, we are losing the last day, we are enveloped in the last night, of a large and marked period of that mysterious thing which we

call life; and of which so much is now passing into that which we call death. It is not the future, so much as the past, and that which is growing into the past, that here stands before us, and lays its firm grasp upon our hasting spirits, and with subdued . but all the more distinct and audible accent, bids us pause. Time himself, the hoary and swift messenger, seems not only to stop for a moment, but even to return, and fold his wings, and walk by our side, that he may take us earnestly by the hand and discourse face to face, ere he speeds away forever.

Nor does this power of the closing year depend upon the peculiar complexion which the year may have worn to one or another. It may be affected by this peculiarity, but it does not depend upon it. He wrongs it, taking not only a selfish but a superficial view, who gives to this influence a merely personal character. Personal all influence must be, in one sense. Individual we are and human, nor from ourselves are we able, at any season, by any effort, to escape entirely. The past itself is individual to every man. Each of us, each and every one of mankind, has lived his own life. The space we are finishing has been to no two persons the same. To every mind in existence, it has been an individual and separate year. On each path it has

thrown different lights and shades. To each heart that beats in the great universe of social and moral being, it has brought its own joy and its own bitterness, with which no stranger, no friend can intermeddle. It is this thought, that gives to the present hour much of its influence. It is that its associations are individual, and yet common. None are excluded from them, and none can monopolize. No man knows that the year has been more to him than to another, in influence, instruction, or responsibility. Much as these have varied in kind, the amount may have been nearly equal to all. At least, the variation both in kind and amount has been determined more by the inward than the outward condition, and therefore has not been seen and cannot be fixed. Who can say, what workings, processes, experiences, there have been during the last year, within the breast of any one near or remote ? Who can number or describe even his own? Could those of every one be recalled and revealed— all the thoughts, passions, affections, imaginations, the pleasures and griefs, that have swept over every heart, with the days and months, the meetings and partings, the gifts and losses, of the year now ebbing -could they all come thronging back upon us, and stand forth in our view, as they stand in the light

of God's countenance, whatever else might be disclosed, this should we all see-that not one has reason for pride or selfishness, and not one for indifference.

Happy they "whose yesterdays look backward with a smile." The past is often present, and great is its power over every mind and heart. We cannot prevent its action, but we may profit by it. Many are they who are now experiencing its power. And with all, conscious or not, thoughtful or heedless, life is closing a solemn account. Wherever placed, however occupied, one term of probation is ending to every intelligent creature. The fact that thousands think not of it, and care not, does but deepen the solemnity of the conviction. It is still true, that to every one, on whom time has laid a light or a heavy hand, to every soul in the busy city, in the great continent, in the waking or sleeping hemisphere, another year of opportunity and responsibility has gone-yea, more fearful, is just going is now completing that marvellous change from the overhanging, all-grasping present, to the deepening and immoveable past.

An important view of the past, urged upon us by a closing year, relates to that which men call "property." The world's moving power is gain. Man