OUR BABY.

These tokens of that gracious presence here,

O Nature, you and I together mourn; But you and I, O Nature, have our cheer

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Concerning him, that helps our loss be borneYou mould his dust to keepsake grass and flower, What warmed his dust moulds me to forms of finer power. WILLIAM C. WILKINSON.

Our Baby.

HEN the morning, half in shadow,

WH

Ran along the hill and meadow,

And with milk-white fingers parted
Crimson roses, golden-hearted;
Opening over ruins hoary

Every purple morning-glory,

And outshaking from the bushes

Singing larks and pleasant thrushes;
That's the time our little baby,
Strayed from Paradise, it may be,
Came with eyes like heaven above her,
Oh we could not choose but love her!

Not enough of earth for sinning,
Always gentle, always winning,
Never needing our reproving,
Ever lively, ever loving;

Starry eyes and sunset tresses,

White arms, made for light caresses,

Lips, that knew no word of doubting,
Often kissing, never pouting;
Beauty even in completeness,
Overfull of childish sweetness;

That's the way our little baby,
Far too pure for earth, it may be,
Seemed to us, who while about her

Deemed we could not do without her.

When the morning, half in shadow,
Ran along the hill and meadow,
And with milk-white fingers parted
Crimson roses, golden hearted;
Opening over ruins hoary
Every purple morning-glory,
And outshaking from the bushes
Singing larks and pleasant thrushes;
That's the time our little baby,
Pining here for heaven, it may be,
Turning from our bitter weeping,
Closed her eyes as when in sleeping,
And her white hands on her bosom
Folded like a summer blossom.

Now the litter she doth lie on,
Strewed with roses, bear to Zion;
Go, as past a pleasant meadow,
Through the valley of the shadow;
Take her softly, holy angels,
Past the ranks of God's evangels;
Past the saints and martyrs holy
To the Earth-born, meek and lowly,
We would have our precious blossom
Softly laid in Jesus' bosom.

PHOEBE CARY.

The River Path.

No bird-song floated down the hill,

The tangled bank below was stili;

No rustle from the birchen stem,

No ripple from the water's hem.

The dusk of twilight round us grew,
We felt the falling of the dew:

THE RIVER PATH.

For, from us ere the day was done,
The wooded hills shut out the sun.

But on the river's farther side,
We saw the hill-tops glorified,—

A tender glow, exceeding fair,
A dream of day without its glare.

With us the damp, the chill, the gloom;
With them the sunset's rosy bloom;

While dark, through willowy vistas seen,
The river rolled in shade between.

From out the darkness where we trod,
We gazed upon those hills of God,

Whose light seemed not of morn or sun;
We spake not, but our thought was one.

We paused, as if from that bright shore
Beckoned our dear ones gone before;

And stilled our beating hearts to hear
The voices lost to mortal ear!

Sudden our pathway turned from right';
The hills swung open to the light;

Through their green gates the sunshine showed,
A long slant splendor downward flowed.

Down glade and glen and bank it rolled:
It bridged the shaded stream with gold:

And, borne on piers of must, allied
The shadowy with the sunlit side!

"So," prayed we, "when our feet draw near The river dark with mortal fear,

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"And the night cometh, chill with dew,
O Father, let thy light break through!

"So let the hills of doubt divide,
To bridge with faith the sunless tide!

"So let the eyes that fail on earth
O'er thy eternal hills look forth:

“And in thy beckoning angels know
The dear ones whom we loved below!"

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

THE

The Golden Street.

'HE toil is very long and I am tired:
Oh, Father, I am weary of the way!

Give me that rest I have so long desired;
Bring me that Sabbath's cool refreshing day,

And let the fever of my world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.

Tired, very tired! And I at times have seen,
When the far pearly gates were open thrown
For those who walked no more with me,
the green
Sweet foliage of the trees that there alone

At last wave over those whose world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.

When the gates open, and before they close-
Sad hours but holy-I have watched the tide
Whose living crystal there forever flows
Before the throne, and sadly have I sighed

To think how long until my world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street

REST.

They shall not wander from that blessed way;
Nor heat, nor cold, nor weariness, nor sin,
Nor any clouds in that eternal day
Trouble them more who once have entered in;

But all is rest to them whose world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.

Thus the gates close and I behold no more,
Though, as I walk, they open oftener now
For those who leave me and go on before;
And I am lonely also while I bow

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And think of those dear souls whose world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.

Tired, very tired!—but I will patient be,
Nor will I murmur at the weary way:

I too shall walk beside the crystal sea,

And pluck the ripe fruit, all that God-lit day,

When thou, O Lord, shalt let my world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.
WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

Rest.

Lines found under the pillow of a soldier who died in hospital at Port

Royal.

I

LAY me down to sleep,

With little care

Whether my waking find

Me here, or there.

A bowing, burdened head

That only asks to rest,
Unquestioning, upon
A loving breast.