Hushed is now the convent bell,
Which erewhile with breezy swell,
From the purple mountains bore
Greeting to the sunset shore.
Now the sailor's vesper hymn

Dies away.

Father! in the forest dim,

Be my stay!

In the low and shivering thrill
Of the leaves that late hung still;
In the dull and muffled tone
Of the sea-waves distant moan;
In the deep tints of the sky
There are signs of tempest nigh.
Ominous, with sullen sound,

Falls the echoing dust around.
Father! through the storm and shade,

O'er the wild,

Oh! be thou the lone one's aid.

Save thy child!

Many a swift and sounding plume Homeward through the boding gloom,

O'er my way hath flitted fast,

Since the farewell sunbeam passed

From the chestnut's ruddy bark,
Where the wakening night winds sigh
Through the long reeds mournfully.
Homeward, homeward all things haste-
God of night!

Shield the homeless; midst the waste,
Be his light!

In his distant cradle nest,

Now my babe is laid to rest;

Beautiful his slumber seems,
With a glow of heavenly dreams;
Beautiful o'er that bright sleep,
Hang soft eyes of fondness deep,
Where a mother bends to pray
For the loved one far away.

Father! guard that household bower,-
Hear that prayer!

Back through thine all-guiding power,

Lead me there!

Darker, wilder, grows the night;
Not a star sends quivering light
Through the massy arch of shade
By the stern old forest made.
Thou! to whose ne'er slumbering eyes

All my pathway open lies,

By thy Son, who knew distress

In the lonely wilderness,

Where no roof to that blest head

Shelter gave,—

Father! through the time of dread,

Save! oh, save!

HOURS OF NIGHT.

BYRON W. KING.

O heavenly night! When far and deep The earth is wrapped in balmy sleep, And stars their burning watches keep

O'er palace proud and lowly cot; When all the weary hearts of men Breathe in the strength of life again And all the throes of racking pain,

And toil and labor are forgot.

O hours of night! How softly fall
Your mantling shadows, folding all,
And covering deep from our recall

The memories of life's cruel past!
When haunting voices from the day
Grow fainter, fainter, far away!

And that pure Peace for which we pray
Bindeth the trembling spirit fast.

And standing with her wings out-spread
Above the lowly sleeper's bed,

She poureth balm on heart and head

And heals the wasting form with sleep. When all the soul's wild haunting fears, And all the burdens from the years

That crowd our hearts and move our tears
Are lost in soothing silence deep.

O rest and rapture of the soul!
When all the griefs our days control,
Like shadows, black and heavy, roll
Into oblivion's voiceless sea!

To be from all the heart has known,
From all a bitter world has shown
Of anguish upon anguish thrown,
At last! at last entirely free!

He knows not life, who has not found
Beneath its hours of night profound
Some soothing balm for every wound
Relentless Care has wrought;

Who has not come from tears and pain
With purer heart and wiser brain,
And girt himself for toil again

Of holier deeds and higher thought.

And when shall fall that solemn Sleep,
That foldeth, foldeth, dark and deep!
Earth's night of night, whereat we weep,
In dust and ashes kneeling low;

Be welcome shadows, as they fall!
Be welcome Peace, that 'waiteth all,
And folds each in her sable pall,

And drops a veil on earth and woe!

Close then the eyes, and o'er the breast Fold the dumb hands ye oft have pressed, And calmly whisper, "Let him rest

In sleep that cometh from his God!

For all his weary work is done,

And all the toilsome race is run,

From rising unto setting sun

Life's rugged journey he has trod!"

THE ORCHARD TREE.

BYRON W. KING.

From under the spreading branches

Of a brave old orchard tree

Rang out the merry voices.

Of childish mirth and glee!

Four cheeks that were red and dimpled,
'Neath ringlets of golden hair,
Four eyes that were flashing sunshine,
Four lips that were laughing at care!
In the golden glow of autumn

The sun sank to his rest,

And cloud-built castle and turret
Loomed high in the silver west;
And while the Day still lingered

Ere he closed the pillared gate, Together they played in the twilight, Two cousins, wee Jennie and Kate. They were playing they were "big folk," And gravely, with look and tone, Each was telling a fancied story

Of the trials she called her own.

Till Kate, with a merry twinkle,

Called her cousin "grand-mother Jane;" And a peal of merriest laughter,

Rang forth again and again.

They laughed till the evening shadows,
Fell darkly on orchard and hill,

And they found themselves in the darkness,
Silent and breathless and still.

And the light and the day and the children, From the orchard all had gone,

And under the silent starlight

Stood the old tree, dark and lone.

The years fled silently, swiftly,

And soon the cousins small Were classed among the lassies, Blushing, blithe and tall.

Kate's home was the home of her childhood,

But Jennie's was far away,

And down to the waving orchard,

There came a letter one day :— "Dear, gentle, kind old cousin Kate,

Come up and see me,”—thus it ran— "So much to tell, I can never wait,

Come up and see me, soon as you can! I've a home that's good, a house that's fine, And friends and flowers, books and trees, All I could wish for, I call mine,