O, then remember me!
Other arms may press thee,
Dearer friends caress thee,
All the joys that bless thee,
Sweeter far may be;

But when friends are nearest,
And when joys are dearest,
O, then remember me!

When at eve thou rovest
By the star thou lovest,

O, then remember me!
Think, when home returning,
Bright we've seen it burning,
O, thus remember me!

Oft as summer closes,
On its lingering roses,

Once so loved by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them, O, then remember me!

When, around thee dying,
Autumn leaves are lying,

O, then remember me!
And, at night, when gazing
On the gay hearth blazing,
O, still remember me!
Then should music, stealing
All the soul of feeling,
To thy heart appealing,

Draw one tear from thee;
Then let memory bring thee
Strains I used to sing thee,
O, then remember me!

OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT

BY THOMAS MOORE

Oft in the stilly night,

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears,

Of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimmed and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken.

Thus in the stilly night,

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends so linked together

I've seen around me fall,

Like leaves in wintry weather,

I feel like one

Who treads alone

Some banquet-hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled,

Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed. Thus in the stilly night,

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells

Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime!

Those joyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 't will be when I am gone,
That tuneful peal will still ring on;

While other bards shall walk these dells,

And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.

MY MOTHER'S BIBLE

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS

This book is all that's left me now!

Tears will unbidden start,

With faltering lip and throbbing brow

I

press it to my heart.

For many generations past,
Here is our family tree:

My mother's hand this Bible clasped;
She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear,
Who round the hearthstone used to close
After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said,
In tones my heart would thrill!
Though they are with the silent dead,
Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book
To brothers, sisters, dear;

How calm was my poor mother's look,
Who leaned God's word to hear.

Her angel-face- I see it yet!

What thronging memories come!

Again that little group is met
Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,

Thy constancy I've tried;

Where all were false I found thee true,

My counsellor and guide.

The mines of earth no treasure give

That could this volume buy:

In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS

One day I was driving in the vicinity of New York with George Morris, the American poet," says Henry Russell, the English musical composer. We turned into Bloomfield Road, then a woodland lane of great natural beauty, to view a stately old tree which had been planted by the poet's grandfather. As we neared the homely cottage that had once housed the Morris family, we saw an old man, evidently the occupant of the cottage, sharpening an axe. 'What are you going to do?' asked the poet, with a tremor of apprehension; 'you surely do not intend to cut down that tree?' 'Yes, sirree,' was the blunt reply of the old man; 'I need it for firewood!' Morris paid him ten dollars to buy firewood, and the daughter of the woodman pledged her word that the tree should stand as long as she lived. On my suggestion Morris wrote the now well-known poem, 'Oh, Woodman, Spare that Tree,' which I immediately set to music."

Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!

In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'T was my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,

And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!

Cut not its earth-bound ties;

O, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!