The twilight stär to heaven,

And the summer dew to flow-erș, And rest to us, are given

By the cool soft evening hours.

And tunefül is the sound

That dwells in whispering boughs, Welcome the freshness round,

And the gale that fans our brows!

But rest mōre sweet and still
Than ever night-fâll gave,
Our yearning heärts shall fill
In the world beyond the grāve.

There shall no tempest blow,
No scorching noon-tide heat;
There shall be nō mōre snōw
Nō weary wandering feet!

Sō wē lift our trusting eyes
From the fields our fathers trod,

To the quiet of the skies,

To the Sabbath of our God!

Mrs. Hemans.

THY WILL BE DONE.

My God, my Father, while I stray

Fär from my home in life's rough way,
Oh, teach me from my heart to say,

Thy will be done!

Should pining sickness waste away
My life in premature decay,

Still, Father, still, I'll strive to say
Thy will be done!

And if again I ne'er (pr. nare) should see
The friends more dear than life to me,
E'er (pr. air) long wẽ âll shall be with Thee.
Thy will be done!

TRUST.

Commit thou âll thy griefs
And ways into His hands,
To His sūre truth and tender cāre,
Who earth and heaven commands.

Who points the clouds their course,
Whom winds and seas obey:
He shall direct thy wandering feet,
He shall prepare thy way.

Put thou thy trust in God,
In duty's path gō on;

Fix on His word thy steadfast eỹe,

So shall thy work be done.

Nō profit canst thou gain

By self-consuming care;

To Him commend thy cause, His ear

Attends the softest prayer.

Give to the winds thy fears;
Hōpe, and be undismay'd ;

God hears thy sighs, and counts thy tears;
God shall lift up thy head.

Through wāves, and clouds, and storms,
He gently clears thy way:

Wait thou His time-thỹ därkest night

Shall end in brightest day.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

Gerhardt.

Tell me not, in mournfül numbers,
Life iş but an empty dream;
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou ärt, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brāve,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral märches to the grave.

In the world's broâd field of battle,
In the bivouac (pr. biv-ọọ-ac) of life,
Bē not like dumb, driven cattle,
Bē a hērō in the strife!

Trust nō future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead past bury its dead!
Act,-act in the living present!

Heärt within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men âll remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time.

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwreckt brother,
Seeing, shall take heärt again.

Let us, then, bē up and doing,

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait. Longfellow.

INCOMPLETENESS.

Nothing resting in its own completeness

Can have worth or beauty: but alōne
Because it leads and tends to further sweetness,
Füller, higher, deeper than its own.

Spring's real glory dwells not in the meaning,
Gracious though it be, of her blue hours;
But is hidden in her tender leaning
To the summer's richer wealth of flowers.

Dawn is fair because the mists fade slowly
Into day, which floods the world with light;
Twilight's mystery is so sweet and hōly,
Just because it ends in stärry night.

Childhood's smiles unconscious grāċeṣ borrow
From strife, that in a far-off future lies;
And angel glances (veil'd now by life's sorrow)
Draw our hearts to some beloved eyes.

Life is only bright when it proceedeth
Towards a truër, deeper, life above;
Human love is sweetest when it leadeth
To a more divine and perfect love.

Learn the mystery of progressing duly,
Do not câll each glōrious change decay ;
But know we only hōld our treaŝureṣ trūly
When it seems as if they pass'd away;

Nor dare to blame God's gifts for incompleteness;
In that event their beauty lies: they rōll
Towards some infinite depth of love and sweetness,
Bearing onwards man's reluctant sōul.

A. A. Proctor.