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"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
I shall rest.

Some day the good, glad sun will rise
Above the crest

Of billowed hill in ocean skies,
The world to bless,

But it will greet my tired eyes
At rest-sweet rest.

Sweet is the thought that some night
I shall sleep.

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
Missed day by day from its accustomed place;
But, cleansed and saved and perfected by grace,
One more in Heaven!

One less at home!

One voice of welcome hushed, and evermore
One farewell word unspoken; on the shore
Where parting comes not, one soul landed more--
One more in Heaven!

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
Our sight of Christ is dim, our love is cold;
But there, where face to face we shall behold,
Is Home and Heaven!

One less on earth,

Its pain, its sorrow, and its toil to share.
One less the pilgrim's daily cross to bear;
One more the crown of ransomed souls to wear
At home in Heaven!

One more in Heaven!

Another thought to brighten cloudy days;
Another theme for thankfulness and praise;
Another link on high our souls to raise

To home and Heaven!

One more at home!

That home where separation can not be;
That home whence none is missed eternally!
Lord Jesus, grant us all a place with Thee,
At home in Heaven!

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;
For they have gained the blissful shere
Where dwells serene eternal peace.

Mourn not the dead, though like the flower
Just opening to the morning ray,
Nipped by disease's cruel power,

They fell from love's embrace away.
Where breathes no chill or tainted air,
Where falls no darkness of the tomb,
They prove the loving Savior's care
And blossom in immortal bloo.

Mourn not the dead whose lives declare
That they have nobly borne their part,
For victory's golden crown they wear,
Reserved for every faithful heart;
They rest with giory wrapped around,
Immortals on the scroll of fame:
Their works their praises shaii resound,
Their name--an everlasting name.

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
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.

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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.

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