A PASSING MELODY.

A chord was touched on the harp of my heart,
On the delicate strings at the core;
A tender, hesitating part
I had never heard before.

It quivered there one moment brief,
Awakening hopes and fears,
Imparting joy, suggesting grief,
Then melted into tears.

Oh! was it a long lost love that cleaves
To the dead, forgotten past?
Or but the rustling of the leaves,
Stirred by the winter's blast?

James W. Johnson.

Corinto, Nicaragua.