"True!" answered Sleep, "but all the The moist winds breathe of crispéd while Thine office is berated, 'Tis only by the vile and weak That thou art feared and hated. "And though thy work on earth has given To all a shade of sadness; Consider every saint in heaven Remembers thee with gladness!" SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. A STILL DAY IN AUTUMN. I LOVE to wander through the woodlands hoary In the soft light of an autumnal day, When Summer gathers up her robes of glory, And like a dream of beauty glides away. leaves and flowers How through each loved, familiar path | Silent as a sweet wandering thought she lingers, Serenely smiling through the golden mist, Shows its bright wings and softly that only glides away. His shout and whistle broke the air, As cheerily he plied His garden-spade, or drove his share Along the hillock's side. He marked the fire-storm's blazing flood He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot, His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed, His fangs, with dying howl; Humble the lot, yet his the race, When Liberty sent forth her cry, Who thronged in conflict's deadliest place, To fight, -to bleed, -to die! Who cumbered Bunker's height of red, By hope through weary years were led, And witnessed Yorktown's sun Blaze on a nation's banner spread, A nation's freedom won. CHRISTOPHER P. CRANCH. [U. S. A.] STANZAS. THOUGHT is deeper than all speech, We are spirits clad in veils; Man by man was never seen; All our deep communing fails To remove the shadowy screen. Heart to heart was never known, Mind with mind did never meet; I questioned not her peace with God, For I've seen men who meant not ill While agonizing judgments hung I could but say, with faltering voice "And though thou walk the shadowy vale She knew it well, and knew yet more My deepest hope, though unexprest, The hope that God's appointed sleep But heightens ravishment with rest. My children, living flowers, shall come And strew with seed this grave of thine, And bid the blushing growths of Spring Thy dreary painted cross entwine. Thus Faith, cast out of barren creeds, Shall rest in emblems of her own; Beauty still springing from Decay, The cross-wood budding to the crown. BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword; His truth is marching on. I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded him an altar in the I hearing get, who had but ears, evening dews and damps; And sight, who had but eyes before; It is nothing now, ELIZABETH LLOYD HOWELL. When heaven is opening on my sight less eyes? When airs from paradise refresh my brow, I feel the stirrings of a gift divine: Within my bosom glows unearthly fire, Lit by no skill of mine. C. F. ALEXANDER. THE BURIAL OF MOSES. By Nebo's lonely mountain On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab And no man knows that sepulchre, For the angels of God upturned the sod, |