POETRY.

TOR THE ENQUIRER.

TO
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 It is the hour when Days bright things Are stealing swiftly from the Night, And Twilight on Der silver wings Is bending from the hills her flight; Der slumberiDg spring flowers, slightly bent, The whispering winds in gladness sigh, And every breath by evening sent, Is bringing roses fragrancy. Oh 'tis an hour to think of thee!

 Dream of my boyhood! though the day Come with its visions cheerlessly,

 To tear thee from my thought away: Yet mid the fearfuness of night,

 The hour of stiffness, and of dread, Thou 'rt with me b!essd iH visions bright, The lov'd-the beautful-the dead. And art thou dead ?-I could not think Amid earth's beauty, and the play Of youths wild pulses, thou shouldst sink In thy young loveliness away: But oh! there are no ties which bind Young holy spirits from the sky! And thou hast pass'd in joy to find

 Kindred throughout eternity. But if amid thy home on high,

 Fond spirits meet that lov'd below, Communing there eierna!ly,

 Forgetful of earth's darksome wo- Oh ii were joy to think thee bless'd, Though every hope that cheerd the way Of earth to happiness and rest

 Was wither'd when thou pass'd away. And filthy spirits spotless wing May wander to this lonely sphere, And pause by each remembered thing That thou hast ov'd unchanging here; In this bless'd hour of glory bring Some token from thy home on high, That from Earth's dark cline may spring, To spend with thee eternity. SEDLEY.