TIME in its ever rapid flight,

Hath numbered in the past,

The sunny months of Summer bright,

And Autumn comes at last.

The opening bur, the yellow leaf,

Proclaimeth, Winter's near;

While hoary frost hath sought to leave,

A blight o'er all that's here.

The foliage falling from the tree,

Conveys a solemn thought;

It plainly speaks, to you and me,

What sin for us hath brought.

On all that here our eyes behold,

The curse of God we see;

For man by sin hath ruined all,

But must this ever be?

Nay, soon the earth will bloom again

In more than Eden hue;

And in one bright, perennial Spring,

Bid all decay adieu.

Come, youthful friends, then let us strive

To gain that world so bright;

There's no more death, but all shall live

Forever, free from blight.

Palermo, Wis.

 V. 0. EDSON.