The life renewed above, Of that all-circling love. The seeming chance that cast us hither Then, though the sun go up The law of mind enthrone, Reveal himself in one; Himself the way that leads us thither, Easter. IN Thee, thou Son of God, in Thee I rest. Hath not the rocky strength thy promise gives, The worm on wings disporting is not here The same that wove its shroud the vanished year. Shall I myself relive?-the quest I raise. Of being, and, immerged in that vast sea, To lose what most I ask, MYSELF TO BE, Is empty vision, Seer of Attic clime, Or Greek more earth-born of our modern time. O man of Calvary, O Son of God, I mark the path thy holy footsteps trod, SEWALL SYLVESTER CUTTING. If I Should Die To-night. IF I should die to-night, My friends would look upon my quiet face And deem that death had left it almost fair; If I should die to-night, My friends would call to mind, with loving thought, Some gentle word the frozen lips had said, My hasty words, would all be put aside, And so I should be loved and mourned to-night. If I should die to-night, Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me, The eyes that chill me with averted glance And soften in the old familiar way; For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay? O friends, I pray to-night, Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow; My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn. BELLE E. SMITH. O May E Join the Choir Envisible. Longum illud tempus quum non ero magis me movet quam hoc exiguum.-CICERO. O MAY I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence: live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn For miserable aims that end with self, In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, For which we struggled, failed, and agonized Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies, And all our rarer, better, truer self, That sobbed religiously in yearning song, And what may yet be better saw within A worthier image for the sanctuary, To higher reverence more mixed with love- Which martyred men have made more glorious Cuddle Boon. GEORGE ELIOT. THE bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, "O try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues, They never heed a word I speak ; I try to gie a froon, But aye I hap them up, an' cry, "O bairnies, cuddle doon.” Wee Jamie wi the curly head He aye sleeps next the wa' Bangs up an' cries, "I want a piece!" The rascal starts them a'. I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks, Then draw the blankets up, an' cry, But ere five minutes gang wee Rab The mischief's in that Tam for tricks, But aye I hap them up, an' cry, "O bairnies, cuddle doon." At length they hear their father's fit, They turn their faces to the wa', While Tam pretends to snore. "Hae a' the weans been gude ?" he asks As he pits off his shoon. "The bairnies, John, are in their beds, An' lang since cuddled doon." An' just afore we bed oorsel' We look at oor wee lambs; Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck, An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's. I lift wee Jamie up the bed, I whisper, till my heart fills up, |