I CALL his name, but the kindly voice, Which so often has made my soul rejoice, Is silent and hushed for ever;

I have looked my last on his peaceful form, Sheltered and safe from life's fitful storm,

Yet 'tis hard from a friend to sever.

He has passed away. It was not Death, But a pitying angel stole his breath,

And bore it away to Heaven; The great warm heart that is now so still, Once battling bravely with trouble and ill,

Is but freed from its earthly leaven.

They say he is dead; but I know he lives,
For as he forgave, so his God forgives
His human follies and errors;

A true stanch friend, and a generous foe,
Who spared the fallen and helped the low,
Death came not to him with terrors.

But when spring-blossoms were bursting bright,' He left the darkness, and in the light

Flew forth to a happier morrow.

Then should I regret, and my loss bewail,
When One, whose promise shall never fail,
Hath called him away from sorrow?

THE morning sky is flecked with cloud.
Of sombre silver gray,

Which casts a shadow like a shroud

Above the dawning day;

And gusts of wind blow fresh and free,
Across the meadows from the sea.

The old farm-house beside the stream
Looms drear and dark and cold,

Save where some passing sunbeam's gleam
Tints its mossed roof with gold;

And from the porch where dead leaves twine,
Goes Margery to milk the kine.

Her trembling voice bewails her fate,
And, hushed her matin song,
She pauses at the old oak gate,
And there she lingers long;
When bashfully young Robin came,
And whispering softly breathed her name.

The evening air is full of storm,
The stars are all astray;

But by the wood-fire flickering warm,
Fair Margery is gay;

For one beside her-seated nigh

Has question asked, and won reply.

O CHURCH protesting! In thy Cross

We see our gain, we weep thy loss,

Those two straight lines, transverse, but tend

To lead the soul to any end.

We raise that symbol, near and far,
And centred there, a glorious Star
Fixes the thought and guides the eye
To One who for our sins could die.