The Future Church must lay its pride in dust-
Nor in grand temples hoard its gold to rust!
Nor take for pillars wine, wealth, falsehood, lust!

Each differing sect must humbly bow the knee
Standing afar off from the Pharisee,

Saying "O God! be merciful to me !"

No one shall say then, "sit thou here, or there!" Nor those take highest seats who gold rings wear, Or earthly honors on their bosoms bear.

Men will not quarrel, in that far off age,
About the meanings of the holy page,
Nor gospel battles with fierce ardor wage!

The leaders of the Future Church will be
Like their great leader in the ministry,
The son of Man in their simplicity.

The leaders of the Future Church will be
No egotists with impious ribaldry,
Who from the bonds of passion are not free.

From them we turn, O meek and lowly One!
We think what Thou for human souls hast done,
Of hosts who in Thy steps a heaven have won.

Beneath Thy sun how dim the flickering ray
Of rush-light ranters, in this latter day!

Who never knew Thy name, nor trod Thy way!

THE VOICE OF THE PAST.

From buried cities how the Past outspeaks
With force and power the living never gave,-
Art voiced from statues; e'en the humble bricks
Tell of the life-long toil of many a slave.
How Luxury rises from the scattered dust!
How sensual lives their pages vile unfold,
With pomp and folly, rioting and lust,
While Avarice clutches still his bag of gold!
Victim and victor rise from out the years.

No more the victim dies unheard, unknown;
His groans how plainly now the list'ner hears,
While time becomes a mighty telephone;
The resurrected towns of long ago
Joined to the present in their weal and woe.

THE LAND OF FORGETFULNESS.

[Calling on a dear friend and being told she was asleep, some one offered to wake her.]

Oh, wake her not! the rest and calm

That come amid days' cares and dreams,

A healing bring like Gilead's balm;

That deep repose by Lethe's stream.
Oh, wake her not!

Oh, wake her not! that silent peace,
That land of calm forgetfulness,

When all disturbing noises cease,

And angels come to soothe and bless.
Oh, wake her not!

Perchance she sees her early home

And friends are round to love and cheer;
And early hopes and pleasures come,

More than the soul can look for here.
Oh, wake her not!

Oh, wake her not! the stars of love
Beam kindly through the night of sleep:
New life, new strength, help from above
And peace, Night's Angels for us keep.
Oh, wake her not!

LINES

addressed to MY DEAR FRIEND MRS. DAVID MERRITT (AGED NINETY-SIX).

Sweet, peaceful Life! that through the years

Hast flowed along patient and calm,

With smiles for joy, for sorrow tears,
An earthly but immortal psalm.

Spring after spring has brought her flowers.
And found her freshness in thy heart
As when a child in England's bowers
With merry mates thy feet would start,

And wandering forth o'er hill and dale
Thy hands would clasp the cowslips' gold.
Thy mates, perchance, sleep in the vale,

While round thy heart their mem'ries fold.

How few, like Thee, are given to keep

With loved ones dear so long life's road! And though before thee some may sleep, Thou art not far from their abode.

Our hearts are with thee oftentimes,
For thou hast had kind words for all;
For the oppressed of other climes,
Thy heart e'er moved at pity's call.

Sweet, peaceful Life! that through the years
Hast flowed along patient and calm,
With smiles for joy, for sorrow tears,
An earthly but immortal psalm.

TO THE OCEAN.

O restless Ocean! like the human mind,
On-surging ever, with a deep unrest !

Earth's shores thee stay not, and earth cannot bind
The soul that seeks afar a heavenly rest.

Earth beckons ever with extended arms;

Each sunny nook invites thee to her side;

Her flower-crowned face beams forth in all its charms
From many an ocean isle where thou dost glide;
Her tropic birds come forth from forests dim

And cast their rainbow hues athwart thy waves.
But all unceasing sounds thy grand old hymn,
With solemn resonance, from lonely caves,
And, with a stately march, forevermore

"Thy billows keep their ranks from shore to shore."

Not there

NOT THERE BUT RISEN.

"There is a calm for those who weep,

A rest for weary pilgrims found;

They softly lie and sweetly sleep,

Low in the ground."

not there! earth but fulfils her part,
And takes the worn-out body to her side;
The tender throbbing of her mother heart
Man's dust has sanctified.

No more a Pilgrim, walks the ransomed soul,
With new-found strength its new life to begin;
The bonds of flesh no longer may control,

Nor hush its heaven-born hymn.

Not there-not there! the earth but takes her own!

She gives us beauty for our buried dust;

We think not of the seed-the flower has blownPerfected, like the just