ed us on
With their beacons of light, through sunshine and storm?
Like spectres--like phantoms--like vapor and mist,
They have vanished forever--a will-o'-the-wisp!

V.

O, where are the harbors, the havens of rest,
That solace can give to a heart that's opprest?
They are hid from the vision beyond the blue sky,
Yet the eye of sweet Faith their portals descry!

THE HILLS OF LINCOLN.

I.

O the hills of old Lincoln!--I can see them to-day
As they stretch in dim distance far, far away,
And on Fancy's swift pinions my spirit hath flown
To rest 'mid the scenes which my childhood has known--
Where the old Hanging Fork, with its silvery gleam,
Glides away 'tween the meadows like thoughts in a dream,
And far to the south, with their outlines so blue,
The rugged knobs blend into heaven's own hue!

II.

O the hills of old Lincoln!--how fondly I gaze
On their wildwoods and thickets and deep-tangled ways
When memory's mirror presents them to view,
And I dream once again that I tread them anew,
While raptured I listen to the music of love
That the song-birds are singing in the tree-tops above,
And the soul drifts away in a swoon of delight,
Unanchored from care and from sorrow's cold blight!

III.

O the hills of old Lincoln!--my footsteps have trod
Up and down their green valleys, with shotgun and rod,
And it seems to me now that the years that have fled
Around their old summits a halo have shed
That guides the fond fancy unerringly there
When backward it wanders with childhood to share
Sweet scenes such as these, inurned in the heart,
And which from fond memory can never depart!

LOVED AND LOST.

I.

Sweetly to sleep beneath the fresh green turf
They laid the loved and lost away;
A chair is vacant by the household hearth,
And shadow-vested Sorrow's there to-day.

II.

The tender hands that guided us in youth
Are folded now upon the gentle breast,
And those dear eyes whose depths were love and truth
Are closed to open in eternal rest.

III.

Through simple faith and duty well performed,
A crown of light forever shall be hers;
And though with bitter grief and anguish mourned,
A consolation gleams through blinding tears!

A TRUE STORY.

(READ BEFORE A MEETING OF THE DANVILLE
SCRIBBLER CLUB.)

Dear friends, to-night the inspiration of my theme
Is not the baseless fabric of a weird, fantastic dream--
For truth, combined with justice, doth impel,
And