The Shadows Of Evening.

And echo IIOAV is telling Of soft music far away , And the heart , the heart is smiling With the grace of an ancient clay . But , alas ! how dim and dreary

Is this poor life of ours ! HOAV passionless and Aveary Are earthly aims and poAvers ! The sun has sunk in darkling haze , The twilight has Avrapped us in , AH hut blinding our wistful gaze With its vapours dull and thin .

The day has gone , the night draws near In its isolating shade ; Vanished the hopes which once were clear , The floAA'ers but doom'd to fade

; Hushed are the songs of gladness , Around , increasing gloom , The serenity of sadness , The silence of the tomb .

Oh , life of man , IIOAV idle seems Thy gathering mist of years I HOAV transient all thy brighter gleams , HOAV plentiful thy tears ! Like to the daylight waning , Under a loivering sky , Our life is a dull complaining , A lengthened irony !

Such is the psalm Ave all must sing , Who Avancler on to-day , As Time to each in turn must bring Its message of decay . Alas ! alas ! Avith the evening shades , Life flickers and departs , HOAV all of earthly glory fades , Broken the fondest hearts . '

Vain is the song AVC seek to raise , As Ave linger on aivhile , Pleeting is all of human praise , Shortliv'd the dearest smile . Por earth ' s vanity depresses , And man ' s treachery appals , As the things which ban , and bless , Stem memory recalls I NUAIO .

The Adventures Of Don Pasquale.

THE ADVENTURES OF DON PASQUALE .

BY THE AUTHOK OP THE " OLD , OLD STORY , " CHAPTER V . " A faded note , a lock of hair , A flower within a book , A little locket lying there , In long forgotten nook .

Trifles are these ? Ah , so they seem , To those AV I IO do not know ; For me they bring a golden dream Of long , long years ago . " WEATHERH . HOAV wondrous , and often IIOAV startling ,

is our retrospect of life ! We go on our wonted way , A \ 'e mix Avith our great or little Avorld , Ave live and move , and have out beings , like the other ordinary mortals with Avhom we consort , and , for the most partours is a very well used and common

, highivay of Time ' s moving years . The lots Ave share , the sights Ave see , the scenes Ave take part in , the avocations wo fill , all constitute a long dull level , perhaps of contented and useful mediocrity . The aspirations of the heroic and the

great , the very true and the very real , have long since gone the way of ail such airy phantasies I But on a sudden moment , at an unexpected turn of the road , before

a speaking mile-stone , or in the midst of some pathetic incident , memory unlocks her store-house of years , ancl straigbtway overfloAvs in a flood-tide of irresistible poAver— all those recollections Avhich g ive a clue to our little history , or colour our humble romanceour most unpretentious

, personality . We see as in a g lass the forms and faces of other days ! AVO hear voices long since prematurely hushed ; breathe the fragrancy of hopes and expectations , Avhich have faded for us for ever , passed aAvay utterl y from our outer

and inner life , for long , long years . And so Paesiello , in his later autobiographical journal , lias this simple , if touching , entry : — - "Rome calls to me the scenes and dreams most strikingly of ancient daysof sympathies ivhich have never left me . of associations Avhich Avill go with me to the grave . "