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Gnost-like I paced round the haunts of my child- O Father of eternal life, and all

hood,

Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Secking to find the old familiar faces.

Created glories under thee!

Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall

Into true liberty.

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THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE.
A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN.

To weary hearts, to mourning homes,
God's meekest Angel gently comes:
No power has he to banish pain,
Or give us back our lost again;
And yet in tenderest love our dear
And heavenly Father sends him here.

There's quiet in that Angel's glance,
There's rest in his still countenance!
He mocks no grief with idle cheer,
Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear;
But ills and woes he may not cure
He kindly trains us to endure.

Angel of Patience! sent to calm

Our feverish brows with cooling palm;
To lay the storms of hope and fear,
And reconcile life's smile and tear;
The throbs of wounded pride to still,
And make our own our Father's will!
O thou who mournest on thy way,
With longings for the close of day;
He walks with thee, that Angel kind,
And gently whispers, Be resigned:
Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell
The dear Lord ordereth all things well!"
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIRK

66

THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. THE Snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night

Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock

Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara

Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down, And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,

Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?" And I told of the good All-father Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall,

And thought of the leaden sky That arched o'er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience

That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding

The scar of our deep-plunged woe.

And again to the child I whispered,
"The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall!"

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

THERE is a Reaper whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he ; "Have naught but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves;

It was for the Lord of Paradise

He bound them in his sheaves.

"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,' The Reaper said, and smiled; "Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child.

"They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care,

And saints, upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;
She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above,

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;

T was an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

OVER THE RIVER.

OVER the river they beckon to me,

Loved ones who 've crossed to the farther side, The gleam of their snowy robes I see,

But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels who met him there, The gates of the city we could not sce: Over the river, over the river,

My brother stands waiting to welcome me.

Over the river the boatman pale

Carried another, the household pet ; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,

Darling Minnie! I see her yet.

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And fearlessly entered the phantom bark; We felt it glide from the silver sands,

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark; We know she is safe on the farther side, Where all the ransomed and angels be: Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none return from those quiet shores,
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale;
We hear the dip of the golden oars,

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail; And lo they have passed from our yearning hearts,

They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the veil apart

That hides from our vision the gates of day: We only know that their barks no more

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold Is flushing river and hill and shore,

I shall one day stand by the water cold,

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail, I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,

I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale To the better shore of the spirit land

I shall know the loved who have gone before, And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, When over the river, the peaceful river,

The angel of death shall carry me.

NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST.

THE TWO WAITINGS.

I.

DEAR hearts, you were waiting a year ago
For the glory to be revealed;

You were wondering deeply, with bated breath,
What treasure the days concealed.

O, would it be this, or would it be that? Would it be girl or boy?

Would it look like father or mother most?

And what should you do for joy?

And then, one day, when the time was full,
And the spring was coming fast,
The trembling veil of the body was rent,
And you saw your baby at last.

Was it or not what you had dreamed? It was, and yet it was not;

But O, it was better a thousand times Than ever you wished or thought.

II.

And now, dear hearts, you are waiting again,
While the spring is coming fast;

For the baby that was a future dream
Is now a dream of the past:

A dream of sunshine, and all that 's sweet; Of all that is pure and bright;

Of eyes that were blue as the sky by day, And as soft as the stars by night.

You are waiting again for the fulness of time, And the glory to be revealed;

You are wondering deeply with aching hearts What treasure is now concealed.

O, will she be this, or will she be that?
And what will there be in her face

That will tell you sure that she is your own,
When you meet in the heavenly place?

As it was before, it will be again,
Fashion your dream as you will;

When the veil is rent, and the glory is seen, will more than your hope fulfil.

JOHN WHITE CHADWICK.

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For Charlie's sake I will arise;

I will anoint me where he lies,
And change my raiment, and go in
To the Lord's house, and leave my sin
Without, and seat me at his board,
Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord.
For wherefore should I fast and weep,
And sullen moods of mourning keep?
I cannot bring him back, nor he,
For any calling, come to me.

The bond the angel Death did sign,
God sealed for Charlie's sake, and mine.

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