THE VALLEY OF SILENCE. FATHER RYAN. WALK down the Valley of Silence Long ago was I weary of voices, Whose music my heart could not win; Long ago was I weary of noises, That fretted my soul with their din; Long ago was I weary of places, Where I met but the human and sin. And still I pined for the perfect, And still found the false with the true, But caught a mere glimpse of the blue; I toiled on heart-tired of the human, THE VALLEY OF SILENCE. Till I knelt, long ago, at an Altar, Do you ask what I found in the Valley? And about me the Voice said, "Be Mine," Do you ask how I live in the Valley? But my tears are as sweet as the dew drops, That fall on the roses of May; And my prayer like a perfume from censer In the hush of the Valley of Silence, That to men, like the doves of the deluge, But far out on the deep there are billows, And I have seen forms in the Valley, 65 5 Their footsteps can scarcely be heard They pass through the Valley like virgins, Too pure for the touch of a word. Do you ask me the place of the Valley, And God and His angels are there; "SOME time," we say, and turn our eyes Some day their hands shall clasp our hands, Some day our ears shall hear the song Of triumph over sin and wrong. Some time, some time, but ah! not yet! Still we will wait and not forget, That "some time all these things shall be, So let us wait, though years move slow, 66 BEYOND. HENRY BURTON. Never a word is said But it trembles in the air, And perhaps far off in eternal years Never are kind acts done To wipe the weeping eyes, But like the flashes of the sun, They signal to the skies; And up above the angels read How we have helped the sorer need. Never a day is given, But it tones the after years, And it carries up to heaven Its sunshine or its tears; While the to-morrows stand and wait, The silent mutes by the outer gate. There is no end to the sky, And the stars are everywhere, And time is eternity, And the here is over there; For the common deeds of the common day Are ringing bells in the far-away. THE BEAUTIFUL CITY. J. W. RILEY. HE Beautiful City! Forever White breasts of our mothers to hear Of its marvelous beauty and splendor ;-We see--but the gleam of a tear! Yet never the story may tire us— And parchment, and scattered and blown By the winds of the tongues of all nations, Like a litter of leaves wildly whirled Down the rack of a hundred translations, From the earliest lisp of the world We compass the earth and the ocean Lips hem of the skirt of the night,- |