THE VOICES AT THE THRONE.-T. WESTWOOD.

A little child,

A little meek-faced, quiet village child,

Sat singing by her cottage door at eve

A low, sweet Sabbath song. No human ear

Caught the faint melody,-
-no human eve

Beheld the upturned aspect, or the smile

That wreathed her innocent lips while they breathed The oft-repeated burden of the hymn,

"Praise God! Praise God!"

A seraph by the throne

In full glory stood. With eager hand

He smote the golden harp-string, till a flood

Of harmony on the celestial air

Welled forth, unceasing. There, with a great voice
He sang the "Holy, holy evermore,

Lord God Almighty!" and the eternal courts
Thrilled with the rapture, and the hierarchies,
Angel, and rapt archangel, throbbed and burned
With vehement adoration.

Higher yet

Rose the majestic anthem, without pause,
Higher, with rich magnificence of sound,

To its full strength; and still the infinite heavens
Rang with the "Holy, holy evermore!"

Till, trembling with excessive awe and love,
Each sceptred spirit sank before the throne
With a mute hallelujah.

But even then,

While the ecstatic song was at its height,
Stole in an alien voice-a voice that seemed
To float, float upward from some world afar-
A meek and childlike voice, faint, but how sweet!
That blended with the spirits' rushing strain,
Even as a fountain's music with the roll

Of the reverberate thunder.

Loving smiles

Lit up the beauty of each angel's face

At that new utterance, smiles of joy that grew
More joyous yet, as ever and anon

Was heard the simple burden of the hymn,
"Praise God! praise God!"

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And when the seraph's song

Had reached its close, and o'er the golden lyre

Silence hung brooding,-when the eternal courts
Rang with the echoes of his chant sublime,

Still through the abysmal space that wandering voice
Came floating upward from its world afar,

Still murmured sweet on the celestial air, "Praise God! Praise God!"

HAVE CHARITY.

If we knew the cares and crosses,
Crowded round our neighbor's way;
If we knew the little losses,

Sorely grievous day by day,

Would we then so often chide him
For the lack of thrift and gain,
Leaving on his heart a shadow,
Leaving on our lives a stain?

If we knew the clouds above us
Held by gentle blessing there,
Would we turn away, all trembling,
In our blind and weak despair?
Would we shrink from little shadows,
Lying on the dewy grass,

While 'tis only birds of Eden
Just in mercy flitting past?

If we knew the silent story

Quivering through the heart of pain
Would our manhood dare to doom it
Back to haunts of vice and shame?
Life is many a tangled crossing,
Joy has many a break of woe,

And the cheeks tear-washed are whitest,-
And the blessed angels know.

Let us reach within our bosoms
For the key to other lives,
And with love to erring nature,
Cherish good that still survives;
So that when our disrobed spirits
Soar to realms of light again,
We may say, "Dear Father! judge us
As we judged our fellow-men."

HOW JAMIE CAME HOME. WILL M. CARLETON.

Come, mother, set the kettle on,
And put the ham and eggs to fry;
Something to eat,

And make it neat,

To please our Jamie's mouth and eye;
For Jamie is our all, you know,
The rest have perished long ago!
He's coming from the wars to-night,
And his blue eyes will sparkle bright,
And his old smile will play right free,
His old, loved home, again to see.

I say for 't! 'twas a cur'us thing
That Jamie was not maimed or killed!
Five were the years,

With hopes and fears,

And gloomy, hopeless tidings filled;
And many a night, the past five year,
We've lain within our cottage here,
And while the rain-storm came and went,
We've thought of Jamie, in his tent;
And offered many a silent prayer
That God would keep him in His care.

I say for 't. 'twas a cur'us thing

That Jamie was not maimed or killed!
Five were the years,

With blood and tears,

With cruel, bloody battles filled;
And many a morn, the past five year,
We've knelt around our fireside here,
And while we thought of bleeding ones,
Our blazing towns and smoking guns,

We've thought of him and breathed a prayer
That God would keep him in His care.

Nay, Addie, girl, just come away,
Touch not a dish upon the shelf!

Mother well knows

Just how it goes,

Mother shall set it all herself!

There's nothing to a wanderer's looks,
Equal to food that mother cooks;
There's nothing to a wanderer's taste,
Like food where mother's hand is traced;
Though good a sister's heart and will,
A mother's love is better still.

She knows the side to put his plate
She knows the place to put his chair,
Many a day,

With spirits gay,

He's talked, and laughed, and eaten there;
And though five years have come and gone,
Our hearts for him beat truly on,

And keep a place for him to-day,
As well as ere he went away;
And he shall take, as good as new,
His old place at the table, too!

And opposite to him, again,

Your place, my Addie, girl, shall be;
Mother, your place,

And kind old face,

I'll still have opposite to me;
And we will talk of olden days,

Of all our former words and ways,
And we will tell him what has passed,
Since he, dear boy, was with us last;
And how our eyes have fast grown dim,
Whenever we conversed of him.

And he shall tell us of his fights,
His marches, skirmishes, and all;
Many a tale

Will make us pale,

And pity those who had to fall;
And many a tale of sportive style,
Will go, perhaps, to make us smile;
And when his stories are all done,
And when the evening well has gone,
We'll kneel around the hearth once more,
And thank the Lord the war is o'er.

Hark!--there's a sound! he's coming now! Hark, mother! there's the sound once more! Now on our feet,

With smiles to greet,

We'll meet him at the opening door!

It is a heavy step and tone,

Too heavy, far, for one alone;

Perhaps

the company

extends

To some of his old army friends;

And who they be, and whence they came,
Of course we'll welcome them all the same.

What bear ye on your shoulders, men?
Is it my Jamie, stark and dead?

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What did you say?

Once more, I pray,

I did not gather what you said.
What! drunk? you tell that LIE to me?
What! DRUNK! Oh, God, it cannot be!
It cannot be my Jamie dear,

Lying in drunken slumbers here!

It is, it is, as you have said!

Men, lay him on yon waiting bed.

'Tis Jamie, yes! a bearded man,

Though bearing still some boyhood's trace;
Stained with the ways

Of reckless days

Flushed with the wine cup in his face,
Swelled with the fruits of reckless years,
Robbed of each trait that e'er endears,
Except the heart-distressing one,
That Jamie is our only son.

Oh! mother, take the kettle off,
And put the ham and eggs away!
What was my crime,

And when the time,

That I should live to see this day?

For all the sighs I ever drew,

And all the griefs I ever knew,

And all the cares that creased my brow,

Were naught to what comes o'er me now.

I would to God that when the three
We lost were hidden from our view,
Jamie had died,

And by their side

Had laid, all pure and spotless, too!
I would this rain might fall above
The grave of him we joyed to love,
Rather than hear its coming traced
Upon the roof he has disgraced!
But mother, Addie, come this way,
And let us kneel, and humbly pray.

A VISIT TO THOMPKINSVILLE UNIVERSITY.

I had lately the pleasure of making a visit to the worldrenowned University of Thompkinsville, and, as I am led to believe that the details of my trip may not prove altogether