The strength of steam and iron muscles knew ;
Sharply the whistle to the gale replying.

Within the cars ease, comfort, sat around,

And higher rose the hum of merry voices;
Home waits to greet them at the journey's end,
And in its light, each happy heart rejoices.

Without the cars, two men were at their post,
The lances of the Frost King bravely meeting;
Till one in dim unconsciousness was lost,—

Frozen within his breast his heart's faint beating ;

And quickly falling in the blinding snow,

The busy flakes soon wove for him a pillow :

The cars sped on, and no one present knew

Who slept so calmly 'neath the new-formed billow!

The other, bold and resolute of mien,

As might have stood of old some sentinel Guarding a fort in warfares that have been,

Until the wailing tempest rang his knell !

Firmly his hand was frozen on the wheel,

The piercing storm's fierce wrath and power defying— As though he strove, with muscles turned to steel, To guard his post with honesty undying!

Honor to them, as when a hero dies

Amid the battle's smoke, the cannon's roaring! Earth gives her noblest sons a sacrifice

For daily guilt, that knows no heavenward soaring.

LIFE.

O Life of ours! that flies with busy feet

Like a swift stream adown the hills of Time; One flower we pluck, one well-loved face we greet, We hear the echo of a bell's sweet chime; The flowers are passed, the face we see no more, The bell's soft echo dies along the shore.

We dream a dream, perchance of earthly love.
We feel a joy-blue skies are overhead ;-
Are mortal-yet in heaven below we move!

We start! we wake! the dream, the joy, has fled! For what is Life with hopes and yearnings fond? Hope lures us onward, but still points beyond.

For what is Life? to dream a dream of joy,—
To follow pleasure till we find it pain,-
To learn all earthly gold has its alloy,-

To sigh for perfect bliss and sigh in vain ;
Still like a weary, wandering child to roam,
Telling its yearnings for its distant home.

EARTH.

"Earth's children cleave to Earth."

What is there in the earth that men should love it?
Is it the golden ore her mines contain,

Which keeps their souls from the bright heaven above it
And seems a recompense for woe and pain?

Is it the love of Fame, still onward leading
Till man forgets in it the love of God;
Till the soul's garden without daily weeding,
Becomes a maze by conscience seldom trod?

Is it the love of Beauty which hath ever
Entranced his senses in a magic dream;
So that his spirit longs for Heaven never,

While earth's bright forms so beautiful can seem?

Is it the love of Art, that spirit longing

Which seeks the excellence man reached of old? Are tempting demons through his soul fast thronging, Till like the Architect he hath it sold?

Is it the love of Kindred round him twining
In those loved ones to whom his heart is given;
Ever the dross of earth to gold refining,

Making his spirit wish no other heaven?

"Earth's children cleave to Earth!" but Earth must perish

E'en as her flowers which blossom but to die ; Hopes of a better world then may we cherish : They fit our souls for Immortality.

HIDDEN, NOT LOST.

Hidden not lost are the seeds that fall

From the farmer's hand;

Faith sees them now in the goodly row,

Or bound with the harvest band.

Hidden not lost are the words of Truth

Dropped down in the heart

Faith sees them bear, through sorrow and care, The spirit to do its part.

Hidden not lost are the loved ones gone

Away from our sight

Faith sees them blest in mansions of rest,
Where cometh nor woe, nor night.

Hidden not lost is the Image of God
That dwelleth in man.

Faith can see, 'neath sin and poverty,
And the blight of public ban,

The face of God on the meanest soul!

As we oft behold

The Beautiful gleam from a sluggish stream,

And the clod reveal its gold.

Hidden not lost, Humanity

Is forcing its onward way;

Through dust and din, through sorrow and sin, It looketh upward alway.

LIFE.

What is this gift of Life?
This restless ever hurrying to and fro,
This longing after something that is not,
From birth to death we know?

With some a fleeting bloom,

Like flowers soft venturing near the Arctic snows; Whose opening bud brings forth no summer yield, No ripened Autumn knows.

Some find a lengthened day

Like that which lingers round our northern shore ; And Death's dark night creeps slowly on its way To cloud the landscape o'er.

Restless and tossing we,

Like waifs that floated from an unknown coast,
Still drifting onward on Time's hurrying sea,
An eager, countless host.

Yet tokens do we bear,

Birth-marks and records of from whom we came ! Our Father's livery all His children wear;

He calleth each by name.

And though we float at will,

And seemingly by chance on life's wide sea,
Yet at the last, O God, our wandering o'er,
We shall return to Thee !

DEATH'S VOICE.

Why wilt thou shrink away?

I fain would lead thee where are living streams,