And we've climbed the hill of the fairies Where, they say, if you only wait, You will see, on a Summer's evening, The opening of sunset's gate;

"And the wondrous magic castles,
With turrets of jewels and gold,
And knights in their glittering armor,
Like the stories of days of old.

"When, oh, such a radiance, mother,
Came flooding all through the air!
Everything round grew golden-
Gold above, beyond, everywhere;

"And far away in the distance,

As I shaded my eyes with my hand, Not castles we children speak of,

But the gates of the Better Land.

"But the way was hot and dusty,
And the hill was so hard to climb,
With tangle of briars and brushwood,
We took such a weary time,

'That when we had reached the summit All was dreary and chill and gray; No vestige of gold and crimsonThe castles had faded away."

Then a voice came from little Amy, With a happy secret confessed: "I am not strong like the others,

So I could not climb with the rest.

"I sat down beside the river
To wait, on a mossy stone,
I could not help grieving a little,
As I found myself alone;

"For I saw bright bands of angels,

With their wings all radiant white, And I think I heard them singing

They will come in my dreams to-night."

The mother smiled as she listened,
While she comforted and caressed,
And saw each tired wanderer

Gathered safe in the household nest.

She sat in the fading twilight,

As the murmur of day grew still, And thought how life finds an emblem In the children's climbing the hill.

Ah, the dreary ways we traverse,

Through the storm and tempest and heat! Ah, the briars which clog our footsteps, And the stones which bruise our feet!

As we pant and toil and struggle

For the long-cherished hopes of yearsAs vain, alas! as the castles

The children bemoaned in their tears

We find but the chill of failure,
Disappointment, and sorrow's blight,
While the evening's creeping shadows
Tell of death's approaching night.

But, thank God, there comes so often,
To the patient hearts who wait,
The gleam of God's blessed angels
Through the opening of Heaven's Gate.

RIDING DOWN.

NORA PERRY.

Oh, did you see him riding down,
And riding down while all the town
Came out to see, came out to see,
And all the bells rang mad with glee!

Oh, did you hear those bells ring out,
The bells ring out, the people shout,
And did you hear that cheer on cheer
That over all the bells rang clear?

And did you see the waving flags,
The fluttering flags, the tattered flags,
Red, white and blue, shot through and through,
Baptized with battle's deadly dew?

And did you hear the drum's gay beat,
The drum's gay beat, the bugles sweet,
The cymbal's clash, the cannon's crash,
That rent the air with sound and flash?

And did you see me waiting there,
Just waiting there and watching there,
One little lass, amid the mass
That pressed to see the hero pass?

And did you see him smiling down,

And smiling down, as riding down
With slowest pace, with stately grace,
He caught the vision of a face.

My face uplifted red and white,

Turned red and white with sheer delight
To meet the eyes, the smiling eyes,
Outflashing in their swift surprise?

Oh, did you see how swift it came,
How swift it came, like sudden flame,

That smile to me, to only me,

The little lass that blushed to see?

And at the windows all along,

Oh, all along, a lovely throng
Of faces beyond compare,

Beamed out upon him, riding there!

Each face was like a radiant gem,
A sparkling gem, and yet for them
No swift smile came, like sudden flame,
No arrowy glance took certain aim.

He turned away from all their grace,
From all that grace of perfect face,
He turned to me, to only me,
The little lass who blushed to see!

OLD TIMES.

There's a beautiful song on the slumbrous air,
That drifts through the valley of dreams;
It comes from a clime where the roses were,
And a tuneful heart and bright brown hair
That waved in the morning beams.

Soft eyes of azure and eyes of brown,
And snow-white foreheads are there;
A glimmering Cross and a glittering Crown,
A thorny bed and a couch of down,
Lost hopes and leaflets of prayer.

A breath of Spring in the breezy woods,
Sweet wafts from the quivering pines-
Blue violet eyes beneath green hoods,
A bubble of brooklets, a scent of buds,
Bird-warblers and clambering vines.

A rosy wreath and dimpled hand,
A ring and a slighted vow-
Three golden links of a broken band,

A tiny track on the snow-white sand,

A tear and a sinless brow.

There's a tincture of grief in the beautiful song
That sobs on the slumbrous air,

And lonelinesss felt in the festive throng,
Sinks down on the soul as it trembles along
From a clime where the roses were.

We heard it first at the dawn of day,
And it mingled with matin chimes,
But years have distanced the beautiful lay,
And its melody floweth from far away
And we call it now Old Times.

THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

MRS. ALEXANDER.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave;
But no man dug that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e'er,

For the angels of God upturned the sod,
And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the tramping,
Or saw the train go forth;

Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes when the night is done,

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek

Grows into the great sun.