Then Summer came, with ardent glow,—­
    With burning guns and sultry skies,
  Her mantle over Spring to throw,—­
    Of richer tints and deeper dyes.

  Then often, with her fairy train,
    Came gnawing Grief and wasting Care,
  Sickness, Anxiety and Pain,
    Mingling in sad confusion there,

  Then Autumn came, with sober mien,
    For summer days are always brief;—­
  And in her pathway soon were seen
    The wither’d flow’r, the yellow leaf.

  But ere her hollow, chilly breeze,
    Scarce spake of nature’s sad decay,
  Or ting’d the foliage pa the trees,
    A gentle brother pass’d away.

  Sweet was his passage to the tomb,
    Reclining on a Saviour’s breast;
  He heard the welcome—­“Child, come home,”
    And enter’d on the promis’d rest.

  Then Winter came, with icy breath,
    His hoarse winds whistling shrill and loud,
  And quickly o’er the frozen earth,
    He lightly spread his snowy shroud.

  And sorrow, like that snowy pall,
    Seemed spread o’er all my prospects bright,
  And Health, and Hope, and Joy, and Peace,
    Seem verging all to death’s dark night.

  But hark!  I hear a cheering voice,—­
    And see—­those pale, cold lips still move. 
  Mortal, shrink not; in God rejoice! 
    He is Wisdom, Power and Love.

  ’Tis he ordains the rolling year;—­
    Seasons and changes are his own;
  Then, mortal, live in God’s own fear;—­
    One struggle, and the year was gone,

  But Peace had stolen o’er my breast;
    And as I gazed I shed a tear,—­
  And grateful for the last behest,
    I bless’d the just departed year.

Consumption.

The whirlwind in its fury depopulates a district, or a small tract of land over which it passes perhaps once in a century—­the earthquake rumbles through the hidden recesses of the earth, and here and there the yawning cavern swallows the ill-fated inhabitants that dwell upon its surface; the lightning’s stroke blasts in a moment, and cuts the threads of life without any warning; and the steam engine destroy their thousands in a year; and the winds and the waves conspire to people the dark caves of ocean with the dead.  These, and a thousand other avenues, lead to death, bearing terror in their course, and heralding their approach by terrific sounds.

But there is an insiduous foe, silent in its progress, sapping first the secret springs of life, but yet diffusing hopefulness, ever whispering in syren voice, of coming health and happiness, often adding a deeper crimson to the cheek and a brighter lustre to the eye.

It feeds alike on all; the infant in its innocence; childhood in its playfulness; youth in its beauty; manhood in his usefulness, and old age in its decrepitude.  All, all fall alike before the withering breath of consumption.