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Then why pause with indecision,
When bright angels in thy vision
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? Thou whose locks outshine the sun,
Seest thou shadows sailing by, Golden tresses, wreathed in one,
As the dove, with startled eye, As the braided streamlets run!
Sees the falcon's shadow fly?
Childhood is the bough where slumbered And there they lived in happiness and pleasBirds and blossoms many-numbered ;
ure, Age, the bough with snows encumbered.
And grew in power and pride,
And did great deeds and laid up stores of Gather, then, each flower that grows,
treasure, When the young heart overflows,
And never any died.
And many years rolled on and saw them striv-
With unabated breath; THE CITY OF THE LIVING.
And other years still found and left them liv
ing, IN No record has to-day,
And gave no hope of death. So long ago expired its grief and glory,
Yet listen, hapless soul whom angels pity, There flourished far away,
Craving a boon like this ; In a broad realm, whose beauty passed all Mark how the dwellers of the wondrous city
Grew weary of their bliss. measure, A city far and wide,
One and another who had been concealing Wherein the dwellers lived in peace and
The pain of life's long thrall, pleasure,
Forsook their pleasant faces and came stealAnd never any died.
Outside the city's wall.
Craving with wish that brooked no
denying, Never encroached upon the pleasant borders
So long had it been crossed,
The treasure they had lost!
Daily the current of rest-seeking mortals No mourning for the lost, no anguished cry
Swelled to a broader tide, ing,
'Till none were left within the city's portals, Made any face less fair.
And graves grew green outside. Without the city's walls Death reigned as ever, Would it be worth the having or the giving, And graves rose side by side ;
The boon of endless breath ? Within the people laughed at his endeavor, Ah, for the weariness that comes of living And never any died.
There is no cure but death!
Ours were, indeed, a case deserving pity
Were that sweet rest denied ;
O happiest of all earth's favored places !
Oh, bliss to dwell therein!
And fear no grave between.
Disputing Life's warm truth; To live on never lonelier nor older,
Radiant in deathless youth.
A tide of pilgrims flowed
To find that blest abode.
BEYOND THE GATE. .
Twoddimpled hands the bars of iron grasp
Two blue and wondering eyes the space
looked through. This massive gate a boundary had been set,
Nor was she ever known to be but true.
Strange were the sights she saw across the
wayA little child had died some days before
Arome slar meat chod, amid the silence hushed, Trownd goes up and the world goes
Some carried flowers, some a casket bore. The little watcher the garden gate Grew tearful, hers such thoughts and won
derings were, Till said the nurse: “ Come here, dear child.
Weep not. We all must go. 'Tis God has sent for her.” “ If He should send for me”-thus spoke the
child“I'll have to tell the angel, 'Do not wait. Though God has sent for me, I cannot come; I never go beyond the garden gate.'
KATHARINE MCDOWELL RICE.
My soul oppressed-
In barren ways;
In harvest days.
But God knows best; And I have prayed, but vain has been my prayer,
For rest-sweet rest. 'Tis hard to plant in spring and never reap
The Autumn yield; 'Tis hard to till, and when 'tis tilled to weep
O'er fruitless field.
So heart oppressed ;
For rest--for rest.
And cares infest
I pine for rest.
For, down the West
ABRAM J. RYAN.
THE WORLD GOES UP AND THE
WORLD GOES DOWN. DHE
down, And the sunshine follows the rain; And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown
Can never come over again,
Sweet wife, can never come over again. For woman is warm, though man may be cold,
And the night will hallow the day; Till the heart which at even was weary and
old, Can rise in the morning gay, Sweet wife, can rise in the morning gay.
SONG-“ WHEN THE DIMPLED
'HEN the dimpled water slippeth,
Running by the brink at play; When the poplar leaves a-tremble
Turn their edges to the light, And the far-up clouds resemble
Veils of gauze most clear and white; And the sunbeams fall and flutter
Woodland moss and branches brown, And the glossy finches chatter
Up and down, up and down;
Having music of her own,
It is sweet to walk alone.
When the falling waters utter
Something mournful on their way, And departing swallows flutter,
Taking leave of bank and brae; When the chaffinch idly sitteth
With her mate upon the sheaves,
Over beds of yellow leaves;
Evil fate, float by and frown,
Up and down, up and down;
Having sorrows of her own,
SONNET TO SLEEP. TOME, Sleep, 0 Sleep, the certain knot of O make in me those civil wars to cease ; peace,
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
bed; The indifferent judge between the high and A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light; low,
A rosy garland, and a weary head. With shield of proof shield me from out the And if these things, as being thine by right, press
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me of those fierce darts Despair at me doth Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see. throw;
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
“And the dream I spun was so lengthy,
I took the threads of my spinning
All of blue summer air,
Was woven in here and there.
The shadows grew longer and longer.
The evening wind passed by,
Was flooding the western sky.
But I could not leave my spinning,
Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, For so fair my dream had grown,
And the blind bat's fitting startled him. I heeded not, hour by hour, How the silent day had flown.
Thrice since then had the lanes been white,
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom; At last the gray shadows fell round me,
And now, when the cows came back at night, And the night came dark and chill,
The feeble father drove them home.
For news had come to the lonely farm
That three were lying where two had lain, I went up the hill this morning,
And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm To the place where my spinning layThere was nothing but glistening dew-drops
Could never lean on a son's again. Remained of my dream to-day.
The summer day grew cool and late; ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. He went for the cows when the work was
done; DRIVING HOME THE COW'S. But down the lane, as he opened the gate, UT of the clover and blue-eyed grass
He saw them coming one by one :
Brindle, Ebony, Speckle and Bess,
Shaking their horns in the evening wind, Then fastened the meadow bars again.
Cropping the buttercups out of the grass Under the willows and over the hill
But who was it following close behind ? He patiently followed their sober pace;
Loosely swung in the idle air The merry whistle for once was still,
The empty sleeve of army blue; And something shadowed the sunny face.
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, Only a boy! and his father had said
Looked out a face that the father knew. He never could let his youngest go;
For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, Two already were lying dead
And yield their dead to life again, Under the feet of the trampling foe.
And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn But after the evening work was done,
In golden glory at last may wane. And the frogs were loud in the meadow- The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes, swamp,
For the heart must speak when the lips are Over his shoulder he slung his gun,
dumb, And stealthily followed the footpath damp. And under the silent evening skies Across the clover, and through the wheat, Together they followed the cattle home. With resolute heart and purpose grim,
KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.
THE WORLD'S INDIFFERENCE.
(From "The Virginians.") °HE world can pry out everything about us which it has a mind to know. But there is
this consolation, which men will never accept in their own cases, that the world doesn't care. Consider the amount of scandal it has been forced to hear in its time,
and how weary and blasé it must be of that kind of intelligence. You are taken to prison, and fancy yourself indelibly disgraced? You are bankrupt under odd circumstances? You drive a queer bargain with your friends, and are found out, and imagine the world will punish you? Pshaw! Your shame is only vanity. Go and talk to the world as if nothing had happened, and nothing has happened. Tumble down; brush the mud off your clothes; appear with a smiling countenance, and nol cares. Do you suppose society is going to take out its pocket-handkerchief and be inconsolable when you die? Why should it care very much, then, whether your worship graces yourself or disgraces yourself? Whatever happens, it talks, meets, jokes, yawns, has its dinner pretty much as before.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.