A DWELLER WITH THE PAST.

From cabin crude on lonely height— Eyes piercing keen the solitude— She gazes at the scarce-worn pass, Where shadows ceaseless bend and brood. A soft caress, a word or two,— The pleasuring thing danced on its way; But to her, guileless child, it seemed That blossoms bright fell from the day. She sighs, the sputtering wick burns low, The night wind bends the long hill grass, And the soul of that fleeting bygone day Glides noiseless o’er the rock-ribbed pass. Ricardo Minor.