"And, choosing life, didst fail to understand; He with the thorns is life, and I am Death." LAURA SPENCER PORter. Sweet Is the Thought. Sweet is the thought that some day Some day the good, glad sun will rise Of billowed hill in ocean skies, But it will greet my tired eyes Sweet is the thought that some night Some night the sorrowing stars will rise And peep From out the mother skirt of nightly skies But I shall weep Not back within their answering eyes, For I shall sleep. JOHN MOORE. Within Sight of the River. I am coming to that stage of my pilgrimage that within sight of the River of Death, and I feel that now I must have all in readiness day and night for the messenger of the King. I have sometimes in my sleep strange perceptions of a vivid spiritual life near to and with Christ and inultitudes of holy ones, and the joy of it is like no other joy; it can not be told in the language of the world. What I have, then, I know with absolute certainty; yet it is so unlike and above anything we conceive of in this world that it is difficult to put it into words. The inconceivable loveliness of Christ! It seems that about Him there is a sphere where the enthusiasm of love is the calm habit of the soul; that without words, without the necessity of demonstrations of affection, heart beats to heart, soul answers soul; we respond to the infinite love, and we feel His answer in us, and there is no need of words. -HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. One Less. One less at home! The charmed circle broken; a dear face One less at home! One voice of welcome hushed, and evermore One less at home! A sense of loss that meets us at the gate; Within, a place unfilled and desolate; And far away, our coming to wait One more in Heaven! One less at home! Chill as the earth-born mist the thought would rise And wrap our footsteps round and dim our eyes; But the bright sunbeam darteth from the skies— One more in Heaven! One more at home! This is not home, where, cramped in earthly mold One less on earth, Its pain, its sorrow, and its toil to share. One more in Heaven! Another thought to brighten cloudy days; To home and Heaven! One more at home! That home where separation can not be; S. G. STOCK. Mourn Not the Dead. Mourn not the dead who calmly lie By God's own hand composed to rest For, hark! A voice from yonder sky Proclaims them blest-supremely blest. With them the toil and strife are o'er; Their labors end, their sorrows cease; Mourn not the dead, though like the flower They fell from love's embrace away. Mourn not the dead whose lives declare Drop the warm tear-for Jesus wept; Sorrow shall find relief in tears. But let no secret grief be kept To waste the soul through nameless year Is watched, and from the grave shall rise, Made all immortal for the skies. To bear the spirit up, Or from my lips to turn aside the cup Oh, let me draw refreshment from the past! With peace and joy, along my earthly track That I have scattered there, in virtuous deeds Or granite pile say 'tis heroic ground Where my remains repose, Still will I hope-vain hope, perhaps !—that those 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. |