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Thou art gone to the grave-and, its mansion forsaking,

Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long,

But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking,

And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphim’s song.

Thou art gone to the grave-but 'twere wrong to deplore thee,

When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide; He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee,

Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died.

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BISHOP REGinald Heber.

THE LOT OF THOUSANDS.

HEN hope lies dead within the heart, By secret sorrow close concealed, We shrink lest looks or words impart

What must not be revealed.

'Tis hard to smile when one would weep; To speak when one should silent be; To wake when one should wish to sleep, And wake to agony.

Yet such the lot by thousands cast

Who wander in this world of care,
And bend beneath the bitter blast,
To save them from despair.

But nature waits her guests to greet,
Where disappointment cannot come ;
And time guides with unerring feet
The weary wanderers home.

MRS. HUNTer.

THE LITTLE GRAVE.

T'S only a little grave," they said,
"Only just a child that's dead;"
And so they carelessly turned away

From the mound the spade had made that day.
Ah! they did not know how deep a shade
That little grave in our home had made.

I know the coffin was narrow and small,
One yard would have served for an ample pall.
And one man in his arms could have borne away
The rosebud and its freight of clay.
But I know that darling hopes were hid
Beneath that little coffin lid.

I knew that a mother had stood that day With folded hands by that form of clay; I know that burning tears were hid, "'Neath the drooping lash and aching lid;"

And I knew her lip, and cheek, and brow,
Were almost as white as her baby's now.

I knew that some things were hid away,
The crimson frock and wrappings gay,
The little sock and half-worn shoe,
The cap with its plumes and tassels blue;
An empty crib with its covers spread,
As white as the face of the sinless dead.

'Tis a little grave, but O, beware!
For world-wide hopes are buried there;
And ye perhaps, in coming years,
May see like her, through blinding tears,
How much of light, how much of joy,
Is buried with an only boy!

B

THE WIDOWED MOTHER.

ESIDE the babe, who sweetly slept,
A widowed mother sat and wept
O'er years of love gone by;
And as the sobs thick-gathering came,
She murmured her dead husband's name
'Mid that sad lullaby.

Well might that lullaby be sad,
For not one single friend she had

On this cold-hearted earth:
The sea will not give back its prey-
And they were wrapt in foreign clay
Who gave the orphan birth.

Steadfastly as a star doth look
Upon a little murmuring brook,
She gazed upon the bosom
And fair brow of her sleeping son-
"O merciful Heaven! when I am gone
Thine is this earthly blossom!"

While thus she sat-a sunbeam broke
Into the room; the babe awoke,
And from its cradle smiled!
Ah me! what kindling smiles met there!
I know not whether was more fair,
The mother or her child!

With joy fresh-sprung from short alarms,
The smiler stretched his rosy arms,

And to her bosom leapt

All tears at once were swept away, And said a face as bright as day"Forgive me that I wept !"

Sufferings there are from nature sprung, Ear hath not heard, nor poet's tongue May venture to declare;

But this as Holy Writ is sure,

"The griefs she bids us here endure

Can she herself repair!"

JOHN WILSON.

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HE salt wind blows upon my cheek,

As it blew a year ago,

When twenty boats were crushed among
The rocks of Norman's woe;

'T was dark then; 'tis light now,

And the sails are leaning low.

In dreams I pull the sea-weed o'er,
And find a face not his,

And hope another tide will be
More pitying than this;
The wind turns, the tide turns—
They take what hope there is.

My life goes on as life must go,

With all its sweetness spilled;

My God, why should one heart of two
Beat on when one is stilled?
Through heart-wreck, or home-wreck,

Thy happy sparrows build.

Though boats go down, men build again,
Whatever wind may blow;

If blight be in the wheat one year,
They trust again and sow:

The grief comes, the change comes,

The tides run high and low.

Some have their dead, where, sweet and calm, The summers bloom and go;

The sea withholds my dead; I walk

The bar when tides are low,

And wonder how the grave-grass

Can have the heart to grow.

Flow on, O unconsenting sea,

And keep my dead below: The night-watch set for me is long, But, through it all, I know, Or life comes, or death comes, God leads the eternal flow.

HIRAM RICH,

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

Gilbert Burns, the brother of the poet, says: "He (Burns) used to remark to me that he could not well conceive a more mortifying picture of human life than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind how this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy, Man was made to mourn, was composed."

HEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth,
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man, whose aged step
Seemed weary, worn with care;
His face was furrowed o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

"Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?"
Began the reverend sage;

"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasures rage?

Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man!

"The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Outspreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labor to support

A haughty lordling's pride-
I've seen yon weary winter sun
Twice forty times return;
And every time has added proofs

That man was made to mourn.
"O man, while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway:
Licentious passions burn;

Which ten-fold force gives nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.

"Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind
Supported in his right;

But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn,
Then age and want, O ill-matched pair!
Show man was made to mourn.

"A few seem favorites of fate,

In pleasure's lap carest;
Yet think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.

But, oh, what crowds in every land
Are wretched and forlorn!
Through weary life this lesson learn-
That man was made to mourn.
"Many and sharp the numerous ills,
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!
'See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight,
So abject, mean and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, 'though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

"If I'm designed yon lordling's slave-
By nature's law designed—
Why was an independent wish
E er planted in my mind?

If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty an scorn?

Or why has man the will and power

To make his fellow mourn?

"Yet let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of humankind
Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressed, yet honest man
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

"O death! the poor man's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!

The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn ;
But, oh, a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn!"

ROBERT BURNS.

THE CLOSING SCENE.

e following is pronounced by the Westminster Review to be unquestionably the finest American poem ever written. ITHIN this sober realm of leafless trees,

The russet year inhaled the dreamy air, Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease, When all the fields are lying brown and bare.

The gray barns looking from their hazy hills
O'er the dim waters widening in the vales,
Sent down the air a greeting to the mills,
On the dull thunder of alternate flails.

All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued,
The hills seemed further and the streams sang low;
As in a dream the distant woodman hewed

His winter log with many a muffled blow.
The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold,
Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Now stood, like some sad, beaten host of old,
Withdrawn afar in time's remotest blue.

On sombre wings the vulture tried his flight,
The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint
And, like a star slow drowning in the light,
The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint.
The sentinel cock upon the hill-side crew-

Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before-
Silent till some replying wanderer blew

His alien horn, and then was heard no more.

Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest

Made garrulous trouble round the unfledged young : And where the oriole hung her swaying nest By every light wind like a censer swung ; Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves. The busy swallows circling ever near, Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,

An early harvest and a plenteous year;

Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn,
To warn the reapers of the rosy East-

All now were songless, empty, and forlorn.
Alone, from out the stubble piped the quail,
And croaked the crow through all the dreamy
gloom,

Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale,
Made echo to the distant cottage loom.

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers;

The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night;

The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers,

Sailed slowly by-passed noiseless out of sight.

Amid all this, in this most cheerless air,

And where the woodbine sheds upon the porch
Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there
Firing the floor with his inverted torch-
Amid all this, the centre of the scene,

The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread,
Plied her swift wheel, and with her joyless mien
Sat like a fate, and watched the flying thread.
She had known sorrow. He had walked with her,
Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen crust;
And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,
Her country summoned, and she gave her all;
And twice war bowed to her his sable plume-
Re-gave the swords to rust upon her wall.

Re-gave the swords-but not the hand that drew,

And struck for liberty the dying blow; Nor him who, to his sire and country true, Fell, mid the ranks of the invading foe.

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone
Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous
tone.

At last the thread was snapped--her head was bowed; Life drooped the distaff through his hands serene ; And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud— While death and winter closed the autumn scene. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.

ULL knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing :
Toll ye the church bell sad and slow,
And tread softly and speak low,

For the old year lies a-dying.
Old year, you must not die;
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year you shall not die.

He lieth still: he doth not move;
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above;
He gave me a friend, and a true love,
And the new year will take 'em away.
Old year, you must not go ;
So long you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,
Old year, you shall not go.

He frothed his bumpers to the brim ;
A jollier year we shall no see.
But, though his eyes are waxing dim,
And though his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.

Old year, you shall not die :

We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest,

But all his merry quips are o'er.

To see him die, across the waste

His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he'll be dead before.

Every one for his own.

The night is starry and cold, my friend,
And the New Year, blithe and bold, my friend,
Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow

I heard just now the crowing cock.
The shadows flicker to and fro :

The cricket chirps: the light burns low: 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.

Shake hands before you die,

Old year, we'll dearly rue for you:
What is it we can do for you?
Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone.

Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone,

And waiteth at the door.

There's a new foot on the floor, my friend,
And a new face at the door, my friend,
A new face at the door.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

ONLY THE CLOTHES SHE WORE.

'HERE is the hat

With the blue veil thrown 'round it, just as

they found it,

Spotted aud soiled, stained and all spoiledDo you recognize that?

The gloves, too, lie there,

And in them still lingers the shape of her fingers, That some one has pressed, perhaps, and caressed, So slender and fair.

There are the shoes, With their long silken laces, still bearing traces, To the toe's dainty tip, of the mud of the slip, The slime and the ooze.

There is the dress,

Like the blue veil, all dabbled, discolored and drab

bled

This you should know without doubt, and, if so, All else you may guess.

There is the shawl,

With the striped border, hung next in order, Soiled hardly less than the white muslin dress. And that is all.

Ah, here is a ring

We were forgetting, with a pearl setting;

There was only this one-name or date?-none?A frail, pretty thing;

A keepsake, maybe,

The gift of another, perhaps a brother,

Or lover, who knows? him her heart chose,

Or was she heart-free?

Does the hat there,

He was with them as in childhood, seated in the cottage door,

Where he watched the evening shadows slowly creep

ing on the floor;

Bend down closely, comrades, closely, he is speaking now, and hark

With the blue veil around it, the same as they found it, "It is growing very dark, mother-very, very dark.” Summon up a fair face with just a trace

Of gold in the hair?

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There were tears in manly eyes, then, and manly heads were bowed,

Though the balls flew thick around them, and the cannons thundered loud;

They gathered round the spot where the dying soldier lay,

To catch the broken accents he was struggling then to say;

And a change came o'er the features where death had set his mark

"It is growing very dark, mother-very, very dark."

Far away his mind had wandered, to Ohio's hills and vales,

Where the loved ones watched and waited with that love that never fails;

He was dreaming of his mother-that her loving hand was pressed

On his brow for one short moment, ere he sank away to rest;

That her lips were now imprinting a fond kiss upon his cheek,

And a voice he well remembered spoke so soft, and low, and meek;

Her gentle form was near him, her footsteps he could mark

But "It's growing very dark, mother-very, very dark."

And the eye that once had kindled, flashing forth with patriot light,

Slowly gazing, vainly strove to pierce the gathering gloom of night;

Ah, poor soldier! ah, fond mother! you are severed

now for aye;

Cold and pulseless, there he lieth, where he breathed his life away;

Through this heavy cloud of sorrow shines there not one heavenly spark?

Ah! it has grown dark, mother—very, very dark.

B

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THE BLESSING OF ADVERSITY.

Y adversity are wrought

The greatest works of admiration,
And all the fair examples of renown
Out of distress and misery are grown.
SAMUEL DANIEL.

VICTORY FROM DEFEAT.

IKE a ball that bounds

According to the force with which 't was thrown,
So in affliction's violence, he that's wise
The more he's cast down will the higher rise.

THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.

ARK is the night. How dark! No light! No fire!

Cold, on the hearth, the last faint sparks ex-
pire!

Shivering she watches by the cradle side,
For him who pledged her love—last year a bride!
Hark! 'Tis his footstep! No! 'Tis past!-'Tis

gone!
Tick!—Tick !-How wearily the time crawls on!

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