GILLYFLOWERS. LD-FASHIONED, yes, I know they are, Their velvet petals, fold on fold, On Sabbath mornings long ago, I used to break from childish talk, In spring she loved the snow-drop white, Or roses newly blown; But this the bower she cherished most, She chose it for her own. Ah, mother dear! the brown flowers wave This morning far away; And I sit lonely here the while, I well could sigh, for grief is strong, But if I smile, or if I sigh, God knoweth well the reason why, Firm faith to feel all good is meant, And oftentimes he deigns to shed And chose he not a bearer meet, To bring for me those blossoms sweet, And child and bonny blossoms come, O'er waters waste and wild. -All the Year Round. Forgetfulness for the Dead. New York Sun. We copied the other day from the St. Louis Republican a poem entitled, "Nirvana," setting forth in striking language the Buddhist idea of the destiny of man after death. We reproduced the verses ¦ precisely as our St. Louis contemporary gave them, but a correspondent in Paterson informs us that they were imperfectly given, and that the following is the complete and accurate version: NIRVANA. As the infant sinks to rest, Let me on thy bosom lie, Let me there a refuge find From the motions of the mind; From the strifes of men and brothers; From night vigils dark and lonely. From the flames of passion's fire; From the tortures of despair; From the slumber couched with sorrow; What to me are pathways golden Life, still life, however varied; Naught of this, Gautama, give, What to me are time-worn creeds, Crimped to superstitious phases Born of fancies weird and elfish ; Gilded with a spacious learning; For a destiny supernal? Rest untroubled, tranquil, deep, Where no souls their virgils keep: Rest in sleep that knows not waking, Where the pain to be shall cease, These impressive lines were originally published in September, 1880, in the Free Religious Index of Boston. Their author is George W. Chapman. THE BROOK. A. TENNYSON. 66 "O babbling brook," says Edmund in his rhyme, "Whence come you?" and the brook, why not? replies. COME from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, By thirty hills I hurry down, Till last by Philip's farm I flow I chatter over stony ways, |