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And many years rolled on and saw them striving

With unabated breath;

And other years still found and left them living,

And gave no hope of death.

Yet listen, hapless soul whom angels pity,
Craving a boon like this;

Mark how the dwellers of the wondrous city
Grew weary of their bliss.

One and another who had been concealing
The pain of life's long thrall,
Forsook their pleasant faces and came steal-
ing

Outside the city's wall.

Craving with wish that brooked no more denying,

So long had it been crossed, The blessed possibility of dying—

The treasure they had lost!

Daily the current of rest-seeking mortals
Swelled to a broader tide,

'Till none were left within the city's portals, And graves grew green outside.

Without the city's walls Death reigned as ever, Would it be worth the having or the giving,

And graves rose side by side;

Within the people laughed at his endeavor,

And never any died.

O happiest of all earth's favored places!
Oh, bliss to dwell therein !

To live in the sweet light of loving faces
And fear no grave between.

To feel no death-damp growing cold and colder,

Disputing Life's warm truth; To live on never lonelier nor older, Radiant in deathless youth.

And hurrying from the world's remotest quar

ters

A tide of pilgrims flowed Across broad plains and over mighty waters To find that blest abode.

The boon of endless breath?

Ah, for the weariness that comes of living There is no cure but death!

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Strange were the sights she saw across the way

A little child had died some days beforeAnd as she watched, amid the silence hushed, Some carried flowers, some a casket bore. The little watcher at the garden gate

Grew tearful, hers such thoughts and wonderings were,

Till said the nurse: "Come here, dear child. Weep not.

We all must go. 'Tis God has sent for her."

"If He should send for me"-thus spoke the child

"I'll have to tell the angel, 'Do not wait. Though God has sent for me, I cannot come; I never go beyond the garden gate.'" KATHARINE MCDOWELL RICE.

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"Tis hard to plant in spring and never reap The Autumn yield;

"Tis hard to till, and when 'tis tilled to weep O'er fruitless field.

And so I cry a weak and human cry,
So heart oppressed;

And so I sigh a weak and human sigh,
For rest-for rest.

My way has wound across the desert years,
And cares infest

My path, and through the flowing of hot tears
I pine for rest.

And I am restless still; 'twill soon be o'er;
For, down the West

Life's sun is setting, and I see the shore

Where I shall rest.

ABRAM J. RYAN. (Father Ryan.)

THE WORLD GOES UP AND THE WORLD GOES DOWN.

HE THE world goes up and the world goes down,

And the sunshine follows the rain; And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown Can never come over again,

Sweet wife, can never come over again.

For woman is warm, though man may be cold,
And the night will hallow the day;
Till the heart which at even was weary and
old,

Can rise in the morning gay,

Sweet wife, can rise in the morning gay. CHARLES KINGSLEY.

SONG—“ WHEN THE DIMPLED WATER SLIPPETH."

(From Afternoon at a Parsonage.")

THEN the dimpled water slippeth,

W

Full of laughter, on its way, And her wing the wagtail dippeth, Running by the brink at play; When the poplar leaves a-tremble Turn their edges to the light, And the far-up clouds resemble

Veils of gauze most clear and white; And the sunbeams fall and flutter Woodland moss and branches brown,

And the glossy finches chatter

Up and down, up and down; Though the heart be not attending, Having music of her own,

On the grass, through meadows wending, It is sweet to walk alone.

When the falling waters utter

Something mournful on their way, And departing swallows flutter, Taking leave of bank and brae; When the chaffinch idly sitteth

With her mate upon the sheaves, And the wistful robin flitteth

Over beds of yellow leaves;

When the clouds like ghosts that ponder Evil fate, float by and frown,

And the listless wind doth wander

Up and down, up and down; Though the heart be not attending, Having sorrows of her own,

Through the fields and fallows wending, It is sad to walk alone.

JEAN INGELOW.

SONNET TO SLEEP.

NOME, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,

O make in me those civil wars to cease;
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest
bed;

A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light;
A rosy garland, and a weary head.

The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent judge between the high and low, With shield of proof shield me from out the And if these things, as being thine by right, press Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see. throw; SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

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DRIVING HOME THE COWS.
UT of the clover and blue-eyed grass
He turned them into the river-lane;
One after another he let them pass,
Then fastened the meadow bars again.
Under the willows and over the hill

He patiently followed their sober pace;
The merry whistle for once was still,
And something shadowed the sunny face.
Only a boy! and his father had said

He never could let his youngest go;
Two already were lying dead

Under the feet of the trampling foe.

But after the evening work was done,

And the frogs were loud in the meadow

swamp,

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Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,
And the blind bat's flitting startled him.
Thrice since then had the lanes been white,
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom;
And now, when the cows came back at night,
The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm

That three were lying where two had lain, And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son's again.

The summer day grew cool and late;

He went for the cows when the work was
done;

But down the lane, as he opened the gate,
He saw them coming one by one:
Brindle, Ebony, Speckle and Bess,

Shaking their horns in the evening wind,
Cropping the buttercups out of the grass-
But who was it following close behind?
Loosely swung in the idle air

The empty sleeve of army blue;
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair,
Looked out a face that the father knew.

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn,
And yield their dead to life again,
And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn
In golden glory at last may wane.
The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes,
For the heart must speak when the lips are
dumb,

And under the silent evening skies

Together they followed the cattle home.
KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.

THE WORLD'S INDIFFERENCE.
(From "The Virginians.")

'HE world can pry out everything about us which it has a mind to know. But there is this consolation, which men will never accept in their own cases, that the world doesn't care. Consider the amount of scandal it has been forced to hear in its time, and how weary and blasé it must be of that kind of intelligence. You are taken to prison, and fancy yourself indelibly disgraced? You are bankrupt under odd circumstances? You drive a queer bargain with your friends, and are found out, and imagine the world will punish you? Pshaw! Your shame is only vanity. Go and talk to the world as if nothing had happened, and nothing has happened. Tumble down; brush the mud off your clothes; appear with a smiling countenance, and nobody cares. Do you suppose society is going to take out its pocket-handkerchief and be inconsolable when you die? Why should it care very much, then, whether your worship graces yourself or disgraces yourself? Whatever happens, it talks, meets, jokes, yawns, has its dinner pretty much as before.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

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