MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.
THIS book is all that's left me now,
Tears will unbidden start,
With faltering lip and throbbing brow
I press it to my heart.
For many generations past

Here is our family tree;

My mother's hands this Bible clasped,

She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear; Who round the hearthstone used to close, After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said

In tones my heart would thrill ! Though they are with the silent dead,

Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book

To brothers, sisters, dear;
How calm was my poor mother's look,
Who loved God's word to hear!
Her angel face, I see it yet!

What thronging memories come! Again that little group is met

Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,

Thy constancy I've tried;

When all were false, I found thee true,

My counsellor and guide.

The mines of earth no treasures give
That could this volume buy;
In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die!

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

GOD'S-ACRE.

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre ! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, In the fair gardens of that second birth ; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,

And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God,

This is the place where human harvests grow!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE.

THE night is late, the house is still;
The angels of the hour fulfil
Their tender ministries, and move
From couch to couch in cares of love.
They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife,
The happiest smile of Charlie's life,
And lay on baby's lips a kiss,
Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss;
And, as they pass, they seem to make
A strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's sake."

My listening heart takes up the strain,
And gives it to the night again,
Fitted with words of lowly praise,
And patience learned of mournful days,
And memories of the dead child's ways.

His will be done, His will be done!
Who gave and took away my son,
In "the far land" to shine and sing
Before the Beautiful, the King,
Who every day doth Christmas make,
All starred and belled for Charlie's sake.

For Charlie's sake I will arise;

I will anoint me where he lies,
And change my raiment, and go in
To the Lord's house, and leave my sin
Without, and scat me at his board,
Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord.
For wherefore should I fast and weep,
And sullen moods of mourning keep?
I cannot bring him back, nor he,
For any calling, come to me.
The bond the angel Death did sign,
God sealed

for Charlie's sake, and mine.
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER

Angel of Patience! sent to calm

Our feverish brows with cooling palm;
To lay the storms of hope and fear,
And reconcile life's smile and tear;
The throbs of wounded pride to still,
And make our own our Father's will!
O thou who mournest on thy way,
With longings for the close of day ;
He walks with thee, that Angel kind,
And gently whispers, "Be resigned :
Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell
The dear Lord ordereth all things well!"
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER,

OVER THE RIVER.

OVER the river they beckon to me,

Loved ones who 've crossed to the farther side, The gleam of their snowy robes I see,

But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels who met him there, The gates of the city we could not see: Over the river, over the river,

My brother stands waiting to welcome me.

Over the river the boatman pale

Carried another, the household pet; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale, Darling Minnie! I see her yet.

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And fearlessly entered the phantom bark; We felt it glide from the silver sands,

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark; We know she is safe on the farther side, Where all the ransomed and angels be:

Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none return from those quiet shores,

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; We hear the dip of the golden oars,

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail; And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts, They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the veil apart

That hides from our vision the gates of day; We only know that their barks no more

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river and hill and shore,

I shall one day stand by the water cold,

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar;
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,
To the better shore of the spirit land.

I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The angel of death shall carry me.

NANCY AMELIA WOODBURY PRIEST.

THE PLEASURES OF HEAVEN.
THERE all the happy souls that ever were,
Shall meet with gladness in one theatre;
And each shall know there one another's face,
By beatific virtue of the place.

There shall the brother with the sister walk,
And sons and daughters with their parents talk;
But all of God: they still shall have to say,
But make him all in all their theme that day:
That happy day that never shall see night!
Where he will be all beauty to the sight;
Wine or delicious fruits unto the taste;
A music in the ears will ever last;
Unto the scent, a spicery or balm;
And to the touch, a flower, like soft as palm.
He will all glory, all perfection, be,
God in the Union and the Trinity!
That holy, great, and glorious mystery
Will there revealed be in majesty,
By light and comfort of spiritual grace;
The vision of our Saviour face to face,
In his humanity! to hear him preach
The price of our redemption, and to teach,
Through his inherent righteousness in death,
The safety of our souls and forfeit breath!
What fulness of beatitude is here!
What love with mercy mixéd doth appear!
To style us friends, who were by nature foes!
Adopt us heirs by grace, who were of those
Had lost ourselves; and prodigally spent
Our native portions and possessed rent!
Yet have all debts forgiven us; an advance
By imputed right to an inheritance
In his eternal kingdom, where we sit
Equal with angels, and co-heirs of it.

BEN JONSON.

I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. I WOULD not live alway; I ask not to stay Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way; The few lurid mornings that dawn on us here Are enough for life's joys, full enough for its cheer.

seraphim's song.

BEYOND THE

WM. A. MUHLENBERG.

SMILING AND THE
WEEPING.

BEYOND the smiling and the weeping
I shall be soon;

Beyond the waking and the sleeping,
Beyond the sowing and the reaping,
I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!
Sweet hope!

Lord, tarry not, but come.

Beyond the blooming and the fading
I shall be soon;

Beyond the shining and the shading,
Beyond the hoping and the dreading,
I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Beyond the rising and the setting
I shall be soon;

Beyond the calming and the fretting,
Beyond remembering and forgetting,
I shall be soon.
Love, rest, and home!

Beyond the gathering and the strowing
I shall be soon;

Beyond the ebbing and the flowing,
Beyond the coming and the going,
I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Beyond the parting and the meeting
I shall be soon;

Beyond the farewell and the greeting,
Beyond this pulse's fever beating,
I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!
Beyond the frost chain and the fever
I shall be soon;

Beyond the rock waste and the river,
Beyond the ever and the never,

I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Sweet hope!

Lord, tarry not, but come.

HORATIUS BONAR.

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

I'm wearing awa', Jean,

Like snaw when its thaw, Jean,
I'm wearing awa'

To the land o' the leal.
There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
The day is aye fair

In the land o' the leal.

Ye were aye leal and true, Jean; Your task 's ended noo, Jean, And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal. Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean, She was baith guid and fair, Jean, O, we grudged her right sair To the land o' the leal!

Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean, My soul langs to be free, Jean, And angels wait on me

To the land o' the leal! Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, This warld's care is vain, Jean; We'll meet and aye be fain In the land o' the leal.

LADY NAIRN.

UNDER THE VIOLETS.

HER hands are cold; her face is white; No more her pulses come and go; Her eyes are shut to life and light ;

Fold the white vesture, snow on snow,
And lay her where the violets blow.
But not beneath a graven stone,

To plead for tears with alien eyes;
A slender cross of wood alone
Shall say, that here a maiden lies
In peace beneath the peaceful skies.

And gray old trees of hugest limb

Shall wheel their circling shadows round,
To make the scorching sunlight dim
That drinks the greenness from the ground,
And drop their dead leaves on her mound.
When o'er their boughs the squirrels run,
And through their leaves the robins call,
And, ripening in the autumn sun,

The acorns and the chestnuts fall,
Doubt not that she will heed them all.

For her the morning choir shall sing Its matins from the branches high, And every minstrel-voice of spring,

That triils beneath the April sky, Shall greet her with its earliest cry. When, turning round their dial-track, Eastward the lengthening shadows pass, Her little mourners, clad in black,

The crickets, sliding through the grass, Shall pipe for her an evening mass. At last the rootlets of the trees

Shall find the prison where she lies,
And bear the buried dust they seize

In leaves and blossoms to the skies.
So may the soul that warmed it rise!

If any, born of kindlier blood,

Should ask, What maiden lies below? Say only this: A tender bud,

That tried to blossom in the snow,
Lies withered where the violets blow.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

SELECTIONS FROM "IN MEMORIAM."

GRIEF UNSPEAKABLE.

I SOMETIMES hold it half a sin

To put in words the grief I feel:
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.

But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measured language lies ;
The sad mechanic exercise,
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.
In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold;
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more.

DEAD, IN A FOREIGN LAND.

FAIR ship, that from the Italian shore
Sailest the placid ocean-plains
With my lost Arthur's loved remains,
Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er.

So draw him home to those that mourn
In vain; a favorable speed
Ruffle thy mirrored mast, and lead
Through prosperous floods his holy urn.

All night no ruder air perplex

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright As our pure love, through early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. Sphere all your lights around, above;

Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love;

My Arthur, whom I shall not see Till all my widowed race be run; Dear as the mother to the son, More than my brothers are to me.

THE PEACE OF SORROW.

CALM is the morn without a sound,
Calm as to suit a calmer grief,
And only through the faded leaf
The chestnut pattering to the ground:

Calm and deep peace on this high wold

And on these dews that drench the furze, And all the silvery gossamers That twinkle into green and gold:

Calm and still light on yon great plain

That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, And crowded farms and lessening towers, To mingle with the bounding main:

Calm and deep peace in this wide air,
These leaves that redden to the fall;
And in my heart, if calm at all,
If any calm, a calm despair:

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,

And waves that sway themselves in rest, And dead calm in that noble breast Which heaves but with the heaving deep.

TIME AND ETERNITY.

IF Sleep and Death be truly one,
And every spirit's folded bloom
Through all its intervital gloom
In some long trance should slumber on;

Unconscious of the sliding hour,

Bare of the body, might it last, And silent traces of the past Be all the color of the flower:

So then were nothing lost to man ; So that still garden of the souls In many a figured leaf enrolls The total world since life began;

And love will last as pure and whole

As when he loved me here in Time, And at the spiritual prime Rewaken with the dawning soul.

PERSONAL RESURRECTION.

THAT each, who seems a separate whole, Should move his rounds, and fusing all The skirts of self again, should fall Remerging in the general Soul,