Angel, my angel, the old man's hand | So I look up as I follow the tone, Knoweth thy silver way.

1 loose thy lips from their silenceband

And over thy heart-strings my fingers play,

While the song peals forth from thy mellow throat,

And my spirit climbs on the climb-
ing note,

Till I mingle thy tone with the
tones away
Over the day.

Up with my dim old eyes, And I wonder if organs have angels alone,

Or if, as my fancy might almost surmise,

Each man in his heart folds an angel with wings,

An

angel that slumbers, but vakens
and sings

When thrilled by the touch that is
sympathy-wise,
Bidding it rise.

Old age comes on apace to ravage all Bright through the eternal year of

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

MORTALITY, behold and fear
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within these heaps of stones:
Here they lie, had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their
hands,

Where from their pulpits seal'd with

dust

They preach, "In greatness is no trust."

Here's an acre sown indeed
With the richest royallest seed
That the earth did e'er suck in
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of birth have cried
"Though gods they were, as men
they died!"

Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings:
Here's a world of pomp and state
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.