It brings sadly back the time
When my manhood felt its prime;
When the comrades, dear and true,
Closer, warmer, fonder grew
In the hour of friendship's proof,
When the false ones stood aloof,
And their friendship was but show,
In the long, long ago.

Do not sing that song again,
It distracts my weary brain.
Ah, too well, alas! I know
It is time for me to go,
And to leave to younger eyes
The mild myst'ry of the skies,
And this mighty world I tread,
And the grander age ahead.

There's a mist upon the river,

And there's bleakness on the shore;

And in dreams I pass forever,
While sad music wafts me o'er.

THE SHIP OF FAITH.

A certain colored brother had been holding forth to his little flock upon the ever fruitful topic of Faith, and he closed his exhortation about as follows:

My bruddren, ef yous gwine to git saved, you got to git on board de Ship ob Faith. I tell you, my bruddren, dere ain't no odder way. Dere ain't no gitten up de back stairs, nor goin' 'cross lots; you can't do dat away, my bruddren, you got to git on board de Ship ob Faith. Once 'pon a time dere was a lot ob colored people, an' dey was all gwine to de promised land. Well, dey knowed dere want no odder way for 'em to do but to git on board de Ship ob Faith. So dey all went down an' got on board, de ole granfaders, anʼ de ole granmudders, an' de pickaninnies, an' all de res' ob 'em. Dey all got on board 'ceptin' one mons'us big feller, he said he's gwine to swim, he was. "W'y!" dey said, "you can't swim so fur like dat. It am a powerful long way to de promised land!" He said, "I kin swim anywhar, I kin. I git board no boat, no, 'deed!" Well, my bruddren, all dey could say to dat poor disluded man dey couldn't git him on

board de Ship ob Faith, so dey started off. De day was fair, de win' right, de sun shinin', an' ev'ryt'ing b'utiful; an' dis big feller he pull off his close and plunge in de water. Well, he war a powerful swimmer, dat man, 'deed he war; he war dat powerful he kep' right 'long side de boat all de time; he kep' a hollerin' out to de people on de boat, sayin': 66 What you doin' dere, you folks, brilin' away in de sun; you better come down here in de water, nice an' cool down here." But dey said, "Man alive, you better come up here in dis boat while you got a chance." But he said, "No, indeedy! I git aboard no boat; I'm havin' plenty fun in de water." Well, bimeby, my bruddren, what you tink dat pore man seen? A horrible, awful shark, my bruddren; mouf wide open, teef more'n a foot long, ready to chaw dat pore man all up de minute he catch him. Well, when he seen dat shark he begin to git awful scared, an' he holler out to de folks on board de ship: "Take me on board, take me on board, quick!" But dey said: "No, indeed; you wouldn't come up here when you had an invite, you got to swim, now."

He look over his shoulder an' he seen dat shark a-comin' an' he let hisself out. Fust it was de man an' den it was de shark, and den it was de man agin, dat away, my bruddren, plum to de promised land. Dat am de blessed troof I'm a-tellin' you dis minute. But what do you t’ink was awaitin' for him on de odder shore when he got dere? A horrible, awful lion, my bruddren, was a-stan'in' dere on de shore, a-lashin' his sides wid his tail, an' a-roarin' away fit to devour dat poor nigger de minit he git on de shore. Well, he war powerful scared den, he didn't know what he . gwine to do. If he stay in de water de shark eat him up; if he go on de shore de lion eat him up; he dunno what to do. But he put his trust in de Lord, an' went for de shore. Dat lion he give a fearful roar an' bound for him; but, my bruddren, as sure as you 'live an breeve, dat horrible, awful lion he jump clean ober dat pore feller's head into de water; an' de shark eat de lion. But, my bruddren, don't you put your trust in no sich circumstance; dat pore man he done git saved, but I tell you de Lord ain't a-gwine to furnish a lion for every nigger!

SLEEP, WEARY CHILD.-CARL PLOUGH.

SUNG AT THE FUNERAL OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

The love for fatherland was deep-
That filial tie can ne'er be mended,
'Neath Nature's flowery carpet sleep,
Worldly praise and kindness ended.
Sleep, weary child!

God's wondrous mercy through thy life,
Dark childhood's weakness first protected;
Always a child, though years were ripe,
Bright honor's call was ne'er neglected.
Sleep, weary child!

The figures painted by thy hand,
Sparkle with thy matchless humor;
Dim shapes from heaven, they brightly stand
Now, all is o'er, "Life's fitful fever."
Sleep, weary child!

The dread great secret learned at last,
Now dawns a new and endless morning;
Through God's own gates thy soul hath passed,
Thy guileless soul required no warning.
Sleep, weary child!

But still, in this thy little world,

In faithful hearts forever shrined: Praised by the old, by young adored, For the rich treasures of thy mind. Sleep, weary child!!

May art and science in our land

'Gainst force and fraud for aye prevail; Thy name on Denmark's banner stand, And loadstar-like grow never pale. Sleep, weary child!

THE OLD CHURCH BELL.

"Say! how canst thou mourn?
How canst thou rejoice?

Art but metal dull!"

High up within yon gray old tower

There hangs a massive bell;

LONGFELLOW.

It chimes with the wind, and each passing hour Its flight by its tones doth tell.

As they melt away on the air so clear,

How mournfully linger they on the ear.

And as I gaze on that tower so gray,
Where the dove her circuit makes,
And the hooting owl at set of day
His nightly vigil takes,

I think of the songs that bell hath sung,
Of the mellow peals from its swinging tongue;
Its thrill of joy on a bridal day,

And its mournful tones o'er the lifeless clay;
Still linger they on my list'ning ear,

In their silvery tones so faint and clear.

'Tis a faithful monitor, that bell,

To the heart that knoweth its sounds so well;
Each passing hour of the "live-long day"
It calls to the mind ere it flies away:
The joys of love-the pangs of fear,
Though past, yet are not gone fore'er,-
At its mellow sound they hover near.
As it swings away by the pond'rous wheel
And its tongue beats the sides worn bright,
While the day streams in or shadows steal
Through the lattice that screens it from sight-
Thus sings it out its merry song,

The wild winds on their wings prolong,
While distant hills its echoes throng:-

Day follows day,
Years glide away,

Still onward marches Time;

His scythe I hear,
Its clang sounds near,
How solemn is the chime!

From out my screen
Life's busy scene

I reach with varied song;
The haunts of men,-
The fields,-the glen,
Its echoes clear prolong.

And o'er the soul
I have control,

Of feelings sad or gay;
The sympathy.

Man holds with me,

Can ne'er be thrown away.

The hurried strife
Of mortal life

My merry peals excite;
But deep and long

A funeral song

I sing o'er death's sad blight.

Years roll away, yet its clear notes rise
Like incense to the arching skies;
While mortals live, then disappear,
Still rings it on so calm, so clear.

THE VILLAGE BELL.

High up in the tower of the old moss covered church, which the winds and storms of many years have beaten against, hangs the village bell. How many times it has

been rung in merriment and rejoicing, in sadness and mourning! And yet it is as faithful as if it had not stood sentinel over the little country town for half a century.

Fifty years! How long, and yet how short! In that time the little churchyard has been filled. The sleepers listened to the sound of the old bell in the days that are gone; and when they passed away, it tolled sadly and solemnly, as they were carried,-lovingly, regretfully, through the old gate-way, and silently laid down to their calm, sweet rest.

What a long, undisturbed rest it is! They hear not the tones of the old bell, as it tells that still another is being brought out to sleep with them, under the green mounds that mark their resting-place. Is it sounding an invitation from those already there, saying, with its hollow voice, Come-rest-with--us?" Is it sending up to the Great White Throne a deep-toned, agonized prayer from those who stand weeping by the open grave, supplicating, “Godhelp--us?" Is it the voice of the departed calling from the other shore, "Come--to--me?" Which is it? Who can tell?

We all know its solemn tolling sends a sorrowful thrill to our hearts. Are we laughing? The laugh goes out on our lips at thought of the anguished father, or mother, or sister, or brother--the lonely-hearted, desolate husband or wife. God help them at such a time! It may be that he sends such terrible dispensations to show us how infinite is his power. As we listen we cannot help thinking in our hearts, and the words form themselves slowly with its deep sound of the old bell, "Will-it-be-my-turn-next?" Sometimes its tones seem almost human, so readily do we assimilate them with our own emotions.

It is a calm, beautiful morning--a lovely, sunshiny Sabbath morning--and our hearts are filled with solemn gratitude to the Great Giver. It is inviting us to come and worship. We fancy its loud, regular double strokes say, “Praise God! praise God!" Its tones seem to be inspired with the sacredness of its holy mission.

It is evening; and just while twilight is stealing over us, the bell's mellow tones come floating down, and thrill through our hearts, wandering in and out, till they grow faint and low, like the sweet, soft music of an Æolian harp.