The while of her
They speak

Of hours that were,

Her spirit meek

Looks from their eyes!

And we

Beyond death's mysteries
A glory see.

TO MY FRIEND, MISS ELIZA A. STORY, ON HER BIRTHDAY.

The year brings back each pleasant thing,

The Spring-time with its blossoming;
The yellow sunshine soft and warm

After the winter's cold and storm.

They come with pleasant memories

Of vistas where the spirit strays
With feet that walk life's path no more,—
And friends are with us as before !

The year brings back each happy thing,
The butterflies, birds on the wing;
Thy Birth-day comes with April skies,
But showers shall bid the blossoms rise,

And from the sorrows thou hast known
Fresh flowers of love shall Memory crown.
May earth still bring thee peace and joy,
A holy trust naught can destroy.

May friends unseen with thought and prayer
The happy moments with thee share.
Birth-Days-not records mere of Time,
Steps-whereby reached a brighter clime!

THE HOUSE of God.

Is this the house of God,

And where his loving spirit broods around? Then be the aisles with solemn rev'rence trod

The place is holy ground.

Not wholly His, for here

Doth Fashion come, her ruffles to display,

And make scant poverty for very fear

Afar to shrink away.

Is this His house, who knew

No place on earth wherein to lay His head? The lowly one's ?-that Pride each high-priced pew Doth claim with pompous tread,

So that the poor and blind,

And those with ears grown dull, must sit afar? For wealth forbids a near approach to find

The costly scene to mar.

Are these glad notes of cheer

That warbling, birdlike gratitude would raise?
Of four trained artists, salaried by the year
To utter words of praise?

Give me the lonely woods

With trees cathedral arching 'neath the sky;

The voices that do people solitudes

When none but God is nigh.

Here is my Father's house

Here are the songs of unpaid melody.

Banished from hence are Fashion, Pride and Wealth, And all the seats are free.

HOLY-HOLY-HOLY.

The little babe soft nestling

Its mother's lap within,
Of earth's large flock the firstling,
Without a taint of sin;

A snowflake white just fallen

Upon earth's darksome bowers;
A raindrop pure, heaven-lighted;
A bud amid earth's flowers.

O Holy, Holy, Holy!

The little babe comes down,

We wonder where the blest abode

From whence the bird has flown.

The aged head reclining,

The eyes still look to Heaven-
Longing, yet not repining,

For the loved home soon given.
A shock of corn full ripened-
A harvest field bent low.
An orchard with its fruitage-
The setting sun's last glow.

O Holy, Holy, Holy!

The good life near its end!

We see the Angel's shadow

When death leads off our friend!

"I WILL NOT LEAVE YOU COMFORTLESS!" When one by one the loved depart,

And few remain to cheer or bless, How comes this voice to thrill the heart"I will not leave you comfortless!"

So when from human lips draw near
The soothing word, the kind caress,
His voice in human guise we hear,-

"I will not leave you comfortless!"

So when this world is stern and cold,
And poverty and fears oppress,
Take of His hand the firmest hold;
He will not leave you comfortless.

When sickness hangs its heavy pall,
And friends can give but tenderness,
Like healing balm these accents fall,—
"I will not leave you comfortless!"

And when this earth looks dark and dim,
Its aims untrue, its pleasures less,
How turns the soul her gaze on Him
Who hath not left her comfortless.

How from the crowds' unpitying gaze,
We turn aside His robe to press,—
The sorrows of life's weary days

He heals-we are not comfortless.

GOING FROM EARTH.

Grant me, O God, when the body's strength faileth,
And the soul in its confines no longer can stay,
Someone may come, who knows me and loves me,
From out the Blest Country to lead me away.

I would not leave here to meet but a stranger,

But seek for the eyes that have smiled in my own— Find ears that are glad to hear from their loved ones, And reap, if I may, the few seeds I have sown.