ABIDE WITH US: FOR IT IS TOWARD EVENING. M SHALL WE MEET AGAIN? EN seldom think of the shadow that falls across their own path, hiding forever from their eyes the traces of the loved ones, whose living smiles were the sunlight of their existence. Death is the great antagonist of life, and the cold thought of the tomb is the skeleton of all feasts. We do not want to go through the dark valley, although its passages may lead to Paradise; and, with Charles Lamb, we do not want to lie down in the muddy grave even with kings and princes for our bed-fellows. But The fiat of nature is inexorable. There is no appeal of relief from the great law which dooms us to dust. We flourish and we fade as the leaves of the forest, and the flower that blooms and withers in a day has not a frailer hold upon life than the mightiest monarch that ever shook the earth with his footsteps. Generations of men appear and vanish as the grass, and the countless multitude that throngs the world to-day will to-morrow disappear as the footsteps on the shore. In the beautiful drama of Ion, the instinct of immortality, so eloquently uttered by the death-devoted Greek, finds a deep response in every thoughful soul. When about to yield his young existence as a sacrifice to fate, his beloved Clemanthe asks if they shall not meet again, to which he replies: "I have asked that dreadful question of the hills that look eternal- of the streams that flow forever - of the stars among whose fields of azure my raised spirit hath walked in glory. All were dumb. But while I gaze upon thy face, I feel that there is something in the love that mantles through its beauty that cannot wholly perish. We shall meet again, Clemanthe." GEORGE D. PRENTICE. EACE, troubled heart! the way 's not long be- Lay down thy burden; say to sorrow, cease; Peace, troubled heart! the hasty word may fret thee, To thy deep longing, thine aspiring cry, Peace, lonely heart! Be patient. Thou 'lt see, waiting, Peace, troubled heart! O coward, weakly shrinking Yearn for the heavenly joy, through human need. Peace, troubled heart! see yon strong ships all sailing Through sun and storm, on to the solemn sea; Through summer calms, through wintry tempest quailing, Thus sailest thou, out to Infinity. Peace, troubled heart! beyond these bitter breezes, Peace, troubled heart! go out beneath the ether, Rest in the marvelous sunshine of the sky; Watch the bees sail and sing in sunny leisure; List the waves laughing as they loiter by. Peace, troubled heart! if minor notes of sadness Tremble through Nature's voices, every sigh Quickens the anthem of her mightier gladness, Foretells fruition perfect by and by. Peace, troubled heart! life's ever-mocking seeming, Life's weary dearth, life's aching sense of loss, Are fitful phantoms of its transient dreaming, While Faith stands steadfast gazing on the Cross. MARY CLEMMER AMES. T THE MOUNTAINS OF LIFE. HERE'S a land far away, 'mid the stars, we are told, Where they know not the sorrows of time.— Where the pure waters wander through valleys of gold, And life is a treasure sublime; "Tis the land of our God. 'tis the home of the soul, Our gaze cannot soar to that beautiful land, And our souls by the gale of its gardens are When we faint in the desert of this; And we sometimes have longed for its holy repose, When our spirits were torn with temptations and woes, And we've drank from the tide of the river that flows Oh, the stars never tread the blue heavens at night, To a kingdom where pleasures unceasingly bloom, And our guide is the glory that shines through the tomb From the evergreen Mountains of Life. J. G. CLARK. IMMORTALITY. A voice within us speaks that startling word: 'Man, thou shalt never die!" Celestial voices Hymn it unto our souls; according harps, By angel fingers touched, when the mild stars Of morning sang together, sound forth still of our great immortality: The song Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas, Join in this solemn, universal song, Oh! listen, ye, our spirits; drink it in From all the air. "Tis in the gentle moonlight; "Tis floating 'mid Day's setting glories; Night, As one vast mystic instrument, are touched The dying hear it; and, as sounds of earth RICHARD HENRY DANA. THE BETTER WAY. ND didst thou love the race that loved not thee? And didst thou take to heaven a human brow? Dost plead with man's voice by the marvelous sea, Art thou his kinsman now? O God. O kinsman loved, but not enough! By that one likeness which is ours and thine, By that high heaven where, sinless, thou dost shine, By thy last silence in the judgment-hall, Come, lest this heart should, cold and cast away, Come, weary-eyed from seeking in the night Who, wounded, dying, cry to Thee for light, And cannot find their fold. And deign, O watcher with the sleepless brow, Is there, O is there aught that such as Thou Are there no briers across Thy pathway thrust, Are there no thorns that compass it about? Nor any stones that Thou wilt deign to trust My hands to gather out? O, if Thou wilt, and if such bliss might be, What though unmarked the happy workman toil, Dear are the hills of God. Far better in its place the lowliest bird Should sing aright to Him the lowliest song, Than that a seraph strayed should take the word And sing His glory wrong. JEAN INGELOW. LAY me down to sleep, With little care Whether my waking find Me here, or there. A bowing, burdened head My good right hand forgets Its cunning now; To march the weary march I know not how. REST. I am not eager, bold, Nor strong,-all that is past; I am ready not to do, At last, at last. My half-day's work is done, I give a patient God My patient heart; And grasp his banner still, MAY WOOLSEY HOWLAND. O ONLY WAITING. A very old man in an alms-house was asked what he was doing now. NLY waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown; Only waiting till the glimmer Of the day's last beam is flown; Till the night of earth is faded From the heart once full of day; Till the dawn of heaven is breaking Through the twilight soft and gray. Only waiting till the reapers Have the last sheaf gathered home; For the summer-time is faded, And the autumn winds have come. Quickly, reapers, gather quickly The last ripe hours of my heart, For the bloom of life is withered, And I hasten to depart. He replied, "Only waiting." Only waiting till the angels Open wide the mystic gate. At whose feet I long have lingered, And their voices far away; Only waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown; Of the day's last beam is flown; FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE. IFE! I know not what thou art, But this I know: when thou art fled, As all that then remains of me. O, whither, whither dost thou fly? Where bend unseen thy trackless course? And, in this strange divorce, Ah, tell where I must seek this compound, I? To the vast ocean of empyreal flame, From matter's base encumbering weed? LIFE. Or dost thou, hid from sight, Wait, like some spell-bound knight, Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not Good Night,—but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning. ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. |