With calm and grand, yet tearful eyes, in pride up lifts her head,

That the Lion in her son's red blood, yet swift to battle leapt,

That thro' the long and peaceful years, he was not dead but slept

That still above her bannered host goes victory like

a star,

And as England's first in peaceful acts, she still is first in war.

And all my friends and comrades, some I know will weep my fall,

Tell them I ne'er forgot them, give my kindest love

to all.

Then, Will, with all things under heaven I now am almost done,

The silver chord is almost loosed-Life's sands are all but run;

Sing to me "Auld Lang Syne," then repeat that sweet old psalm

You and I once learned together, in the Sabbath evening's calm.

JAMES DAWSON.

THE DEACON'S WEEK.

Permission of Congregational Sunday-School and Publishing Society. Boston, Mass.

HE communion service of January was just over

THE

in the church at Sugar Hollow, and people were waiting for Mr. Parkes to give out the hymn:

but he did not give it out. He laid his book down on the table and looked about on his church.

His congregation was a mixture of farmers and mechanics, for Sugar Hollow was cut in two by Sugar Brook, a brawling, noisy stream that turned the wheel of many a mill and manufactory; yet on the hills around it there was still a scattered popula tion, eating their bread in the full perception of the primeval curse.

It seemed sometimes to Mr. Parkes that nothing but the trump of Gabriel could arouse his people from their sins, and make them believe on the Lord and follow His footsteps. To-day—no, a long time before to-day-he had mused and prayed till an idea took shape in his thought, and now he was to put it in practice.

"My dear friends," he said, "you all know, though I did not give any notice to that effect, that this week is the Week of Prayer. I have a mind to ask you to make it for this once a week of practice instead. I think we may discover some things, some of the things of God in this manner that a succession of prayer-meetings would not perhaps so thoroughly reveal to us.

"For instance, Monday is prayer for temperance work; try all that day to be temperate in speech, in act, in indulgence of any kind that is hurtful to you. The next day is for Sunday-schools; go and visit your scholars, such of you as are teachers, and try to feel that they have living souls to save. Wednesday is fellowship meeting; we are invited

to a union meeting of this sort at Bantam. Few of us can go twenty-five miles; let us spend that day in cultivating our brethren here. Thursday is the day for the family relations, remembering the words Fathers, provoke not your children to anger; husbands, love your wives, and be not bitter against them.' Friday the church is to be prayed for. Saturday is prayer-day for the heathen and foreign missions. Perhaps you will find work that ye knew not of lying in your midst. And let us all on Saturday evening meet here again, and choose some one brother to relate his experience of the week. You who are willing to try this method please to rise."

Everybody rose except old Amos Tucker, who never stirred, though his wife pulled at him and whispered to him imploringly. He only shook his grizzled head and sat immovable.

Saturday night the church assembled again. The cheerful earnestness was gone from their faces; they looked troubled, weary, as the pastor expected. The pastor said, after he had counted the ballots which had been distributed, " Deacon Emmons, the lot has fallen on you."

"I'm sorry for't; I hain't got the best of records, now, I tell you. I'm pretty well ashamed of myself, and maybe I shall profit by what I've found out these six days back. Monday I looked about me, to begin with. I'm amazin' fond of coffee, and it aint good for me; but it does set a man up good cold mornings to have a cup of hot, tasty drink, and I haven't had the grit to refuse. I knew it made me what folks

HOME OF THE SOUL.

I WILL sing you a song of that beautiful land,

The far-away home of the soul,

Where no storms ever beat on that glittering strand, While the years of eternity roll.

Oh! that home of the soul in my visions and dreams,
Its bright jasper walls I can see,

Till I fancy but thinly the vale intervenes
Between the fair city and me.

There the great trees of life in their beauty do grow,
And the River of Life floweth by;

For no death ever enters that city, you know,
And nothing that maketh a lie.

That unchangeable home is for you and for me,
Where Jesus of Nazareth stands;

The King of all kingdoms forever is He,

And He holdeth our crowns in His hands.

Oh! how sweet it will be in that beautiful land,
So free from all sorrow and pain,

With songs on our lips and with harps in our hands,
To meet one another again.

PHILIP PHILLIPS,

BY THE ALMA.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

Contributed by Mrs. J. W. Shoemaker, Vice-Principal of the National School of Elocution and Oratory, Philadelphia.

γου

have found me out at last, Will, sit down beside me here

It is not quite so hard to die when one we love is

near:

You and I have known each other, since we ran about the glen,

When as boys we played as soldiers, and wished that

But hark! I hear the roll of drums, and at that

stirring sound

The Angel of the Battle spreads its dusky wings

around;

I must tell you of the battle tho' my breath is failing

fast,

For within my dying spirit sweeps the rousing battle blast.

Well we scrambled through the vineyard, and we swam across the stream,

Above, from out the battery's smoke we saw the lightning gleam;

A few fell by the river, but we reached the further

banks,

And then we halted for a space to form our broken

ranks.