To waste the soul through nameless years.
They rest in hope; their hallowed dust

Is watched, and from the grave shall rise;
Earth shall restore her sacred trust,

Made all immortal for the skies.

Dying Thoughts.

And in my dying hour,

J. N.

When riches, fame and honor have no power

To bear the spirit up,

Or from my lips to turn aside the cup
That all must drink at last,

Oh, let me draw refreshment from the past!
Then let my soul run back,

With peace and joy, along my earthly track
And see that all the seeds

That I have scattered there, in virtuous deeds
Have sprung up, and have given,
Already, fruits of which to taste is Heaven!
And though no grassy mound

Or granite pile say 'tis heroic ground
Where my remains repose,

Still will I hope—vain hope, perhaps !—that those
Whom I have striven to bless-

The wanderer reclaimed, the fatherless

May stand around my grave

With the poor prisoner and the poorer slave,

And breathe an humble prayer

That they may die like him whose bones are moldering

there.

-JOHN PIERPONT.

"God's Acre."

Out yonder in the moonlight, wherein God's Acre lies, Go angels walking to and fro, singing their lullabies. Their radiant wings are folded and their eyes are bended low,

As they sing among the beds wherein the flowers delight to grow.

Sleep!

Oh, sleep!

Oh, sleep! The shepherd guardeth his sheep. Fast speedeth the night away; soon cometh the glorious

day.

Sleep, weary ones, while ye may. Sleep! Oh, sleep!

The flowers within God's Acre see that fair and wondrous

sight,

And hear the angels singing to the sleepers through the

night.

And, lo! throughout the hours of day these gentle flowers prolong

The music of the angels in that tender slumber song.

Sleep! Oh, sleep! The shepherd loveth his sheep.
He that guardeth His flock the best

Foldeth them into His loving breast.
So sleep ye now and take your rest.
Sleep! Oh, sleep!

From angels and from flowers the years have learned this soothing song,

And with its heavenly music speed the days and nights

along;

So through all time, whose flight the shepherd's vigils

glorify,

God's Acre slumbereth in the peace of that sweet lullaby. EUGENE Field.

Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth; yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors, for their works follow with them.-THE BIBLE.

God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly
What He hath given.

They live on earth, in thought and deed, as truly
As in His Heaven.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.