f.Jie fast latmunal MalL 
W. P. Palmer. 
HEN last we paced these sylvan wilds, dear friend, 
' ' Each shrub, and tree, and swarded space between. 
Were flush with balmy June, and every nook 
Of all the grove could boast, its own sweet lyre. 
Our path was paved with shadows gayly flecked 
With drops of golden sunlight, as it were 
The print of angels’ topaz-sandaled feet 
Upon the glowing turf; and as we strayed 
From glen to glen, no dusky forms kept pace 
With our own steps along the browner shades 
Thine arm was linked in mine, and oftentimes 
We paused in very ecstasy amid 
The choral gladness, and with merry lips 
Broke into song spontaneous as the birds’. 
Four moons have run their cycles since we stood 
[u Summer’s green pavilion, then so gay, 
But now so changed we scarce can recognize 
One form or feature of the faded scene. 
