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And ever as they sang,
Methought the voice of Angels
From Heav'n in answer rang;
Methought the voice of Angels
From Heav'n in answer rang.
Jerusalem! Jerusalem!
Lift up your gates and sing,
Hosanna in the highest!
Hosanna to your King!

And then methought my dream was chang'd,
The streets no longer rang,
Hush'd were the glad Hosannas
The little children sang.
The sun grew dark with mystery,
The morn was cold and chill
As the shadow of a cross arose upon a lonely hill.
As the shadow of a cross arose upon a lonely hill.
Jerusalem! Jerusalem!
Hark! how the Angels sing,
Hosanna in the highest,
Hosanna to your King.

And once again the scene was chang'd,
New earth there seem'd to be,
I saw the Holy City
Beside the tideless sea;
The light of God was on its streets,
The gates were open wide,
And all who would might enter,
And no one was denied.

No need of moon or stars by night,
Or sun to shine by day,
It was the new Jerusalem
That would not pass away,
It was the new Jerusalem
That would not pass away.
Jerusalem! Jerusalem!
Sing for the night is o'er!
Hosanna in the highest,
Hosanna for evermore!
Hosanna in the highest,
Hosanna for evermore!

THE QUESTIONER

BY CARL WERNER

I called the boy to my knee one day,

And I said: “You're just past four; Will you laugh in that same light-hearted way

When you're turned, say, thirty more?
Then I thought of a past I'd fain erase

More clouded skies than blue -
And I anxiously peered in his upturned face

For it seemed to say: “Did you ?

I touched my lips to his tiny own

And I said to the boy: “Heigh, ho! Those lips are as sweet as the hay, new-mown;

Will you keep them always so ?” Then back from those years came a rakish song

With a ribald jest or two —
And I gazed at the child who knew no wrong,

And I thought he asked: .
“Did you ?”

I looked in his eyes, big, brown and clear,

And I cried: "Oh, boy of mine!
Will you keep them true in the after-year?

Will you leave no heart to pine?
Then out of the past came another's eyes

Sad eyes of tear-dimmed blue
Did he know they were not his mother's eyes ?

For he answered me:
“Did you?”

LINES ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON CHARLES

BY DANIEL WEBSTER

My son, thou wast my heart's delight,
Thy morn of life was gay and cheery;
That morn has rushed to sudden night,
Thy father's house is sad and dreary.

I held thee on my knee, my son!
And kissed thee laughing, kissed thee weeping.
But ah! thy little day is done,
Thou'rt with thy angel sister sleeping.

The staff, on which my years should lean,
Is broken, ere those years come o'er me;
My funeral rites thou shouldst have seen,
But thou art in the tomb before me.

Thou rear'st to me no filial stone,
No parent's grave with tears beholdest;
Thou art my ancestor, my son!
And stand in Heaven's account the oldest.

On earth my lot was soonest cast,
Thy generation after mine,
Thou hast thy predecessors past;
Earlier eternity is thine.

I should have set before thine eyes
The road to Heaven, and showed it clear;
But thou untaught spring'st to the skies,
And leav'st thy teacher lingering here.

Sweet Seraph, I would learn of thee,
And hasten to partake thy bliss!
And oh! to thy world welcome me,
As first I welcomed thee to this.

Dear Angel, thou art safe in Heaven;
No prayers for thee need more be made;
Oh! let thy prayers for those be given
Who oft have blessed thy infant head.

My Father! I beheld thee born
And led thy tottering steps with care;
Before me risen to Heaven's bright morn,
My son! My Father! guide me there.

THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far

away, O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican

array, Who is losing? who is winning ? are they far or come

they near ? Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the

storm we hear.

Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle

rolls; Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy

on their souls!” Who is losing ? who is winning ? — “Over hill and

over plain, I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the moun

tain rain.'

Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena,

look once more. "Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as

before, Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman,

foot and horse, Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down

its mountain-course.”

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