She is not wont to leave her friends so lonely She cannot be far off-perhaps but sleeping; Doubtless at their low call she would arouse; Why do they summon her alone with weeping? Where is the little mistress of the house? The portraits stare behind their veiling covers; Upon the air a ghastly silence hovers- Cold, dark, and desolate the place without her, The curtains fall, undraped by her slight fingers, Alas! there was a rumor and a whisper The youngest baby here, a tiny lisper, Can falter forth the reason why she stays, Why care and love, the tenderest and sincerest, Throw wide the door! Within the gloomy portal, O empty shell! O beautiful frail prison! Cold, white, and vacant, tenantless and dumb, From such poor clay as this has Christ arisen— For such as this He shall in glory come! But in the calm indifference to our sorrow, In the sharp anguish of her parting breath, In the dark gulf that hides her form to-morrow, Thou hast thy victory, Grave; thy sting, O Death! Yet shall she walk so fair that we who knew her, LESLIE WALTER En the Hospital. I LAY me down to sleep, With little thought or care A bowing, burdened head, My good right hand forgets Its cunning now; To march the weary march I know not how. I am not eager, bold, Nor strong all that is past; I am ready not to do At last, at last. My half day's work is done, And grasp His banner still, Though all the blue be dim; These stripes as well as stars MARY WOOLSEY HOWLAND. Time and Eternity. It is not Time that flies; 'T is we, 't is we are flying. It is not Life that dies; 'T is we, 't is we are dying. Time and eternity are one; Time is eternity begun. Life changes, yet without decay; "T is we alone who pass away. It is not Truth that flies; 'T is we, 't is we are flying. It is not Faith that dies; 'T is we, 't is we are dying. O ever-during Faith and Truth, Whose youth is age, whose age is youth, Ye cannot perish from our sky. It is not Hope that flies; 'T is we, 't is we are flying. It is not Love that dies; 'T is we, 't is we are dying. Twin streams that have in heaven your birth, Ye glide in gentle joy through earth. We fade, like flowers beside you sown; Ye still are flowing, flowing on. Yet we but die to live; It is from death we 're flying; For us there is no dying. HORATIUS BONAR. My Ain Countree. I AM far from my hame, an' I 'm weary often whiles smiles; I'll ne'er be fu' content until my een do see The gowden gates o' heaven, an' my ain countree. The earth is fleck'd wi' flow'rs, mony-tinted, fresh an' gay, The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae; But these sights an' these soun's will as naething be to me, When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree. I've his gude word of promise, that some gladsome day the King To his ain royal palace his banished hame will bring; Wi' een an' wi' heart running over we shall see "The King in his beauty," an' our ain countree. My sins hae been mony' an' my sorrows hae been sair, But there they'll never vex me, nor be remembered mair; His bluid has made me white, his hand shall wipe mine ee, When he brings me hame at last to my ain countree. Like a bairn to his mither, a wee birdie to its nest, For he gathers in his bosom witless, worthless lambs like me, An' he carries them himself to his ain countree. He's faithfu' that hath promised, he 'll surely come again; So I'm watching aye an' singing o' my hame as I wait, The Petrified Fern. In a valley, centuries ago, Grew a little fern-leaf green and slender, Waving when the wind crept down so low. Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it; Playful sunbeams darted in and found it; Drops of dew stole down by night and crowned it ; But no foot of man e'er came that way; Earth was young and keeping holiday. Monster fishes swam the silent main; Stately forests waved their giant branches; |