Alas for maiden, alas for judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge !

God pity them both! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall ;

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,

The saddest are these: "It might have been !"

Ah, well for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

QUAKERDOM.

THE FORMAL CALL.

THROUGH her forced, abnormal quiet

Flashed the soul of frolic riot,

When the stone that weighed upon its buoyant life is thrust aside;

So the long-enforced stagnation
Of the maiden's conversation

Now imparted fivefold brilliance to its evervarying tide.

Widely ranging, quickly changing,
Witty, winning, from beginning

Unto end I listened, merely flinging in a casual word;

Eloquent, and yet how simple!

Hand and eye, and eddying dimple,

Tongue and lip together made a music seen as

well as heard.

When the noonday woods are ringing,

All the birds of summer singing,

Suddenly there falls a silence, and we know a

serpent nigh:

So upon the door a rattle Stopped our animated tattle,

downcast eyes;

All in vain I tried each topic,

suit her eye.