BY FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.

WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours That must be counted, ere I see thy face? How shall I charm the interval that lowers Between this time and that sweet time of grace-'

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense - Weary with longing? Shall I flee away

Into past days, and with some fond pretense Cheat myself to forget the present day?

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin

Of casting from me God's great gift of time?

Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, Leave and forget life's purposes sublime?

Oh, how, or by what means, may I contrive

To bring the hour that brings thee back more near

How may I teach my drooping hope to live Until that blessed time, and thou art here?

I' 11 tell thee; for thy sake, I will lay hold Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,

In worthy deeds, each moment that is told, While thou, beloved one! art far from me.

For thee, I will arouse my thoughts to try All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;

For thy dear sake, I will walk patiently Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains.

I will this dreary blank of absence make A noble task-time; and will therein strive

To follow excellence, and to o'ertake

More good than I have won, since yet I live.

So may this doomed time build up in me A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine;

So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine.

HO, THERE ! FISHERMAN, HOLD YOUR HAND ! '