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They shall not wander from that blessed way;

Nor heat, nor cold, nor weariness, nor sin,
Nor any clouds in that eternal day
Trouble them more who once have entered in;

But all is rest to them whose world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.

Thus the gates close and I behold no more,

Though, as I walk, they open oftener now
For those who leave me and go on before ;
And I am lonely also while I bow

And think of those dear souls whose world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.

Tired, very tired !-but I will patient be,

Nor will I murmur at the weary way:
I too shall walk beside the crystal sea,
And pluck the ripe fruit, all that God-lit day,

When thou, oh Lord, shalt let my world-worn feet
Press the cool smoothness of the golden street.

WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

Rest.

[Lines found under the pillow of a soldier who died in hospital at Port Royal.]

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My good right hand forgets

Its cunning now;
To march the weary march

I know not how.

I am not eager, bold,

Nor strong—all that is past;
I am ready not to do

At last, at last.

My half-day's work is done,

And this is all my part-
I give a patient God

My patient heart;

And grasp his banner still,

Though all the blue be dim;
These stripes as well as stars

Lead after him.

The Cloud.

A

CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,

A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; Long had I watched the glory moving on,

O'er the still radiance of the lake below:
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow,

E’en in its very motion there was rest,
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,

Wafted the traveler to the beauteous west.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, And by the breath of mercy made to roll

Right onward to the golden gates of heaven,
While to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

JOHN WILSON. MY AIN COUNTREE.

409

My Ain Countree.

I

AM far from my hame an’ I'm weary often whiles
For the longed-for hame-bringing, an' my Father's wel-

come smiles;
I'll ne'er be fu' content until my een do see
The gowden gates o’ heaven, an' my ain countree.

The earth is flecked wi’ flow'rs, mony-tinted, fresh and gay, The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae; But these sights and these soun's will as naething be to me, When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree.

I've his gude word of promise, that some gladsome day, the

King,
To his ain royal palace his banish'd hame will bring;
Wi' een an' wi' heart running oure we shall see
“ The King in his beauty,” an' our ain countree.

My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae been sair,
But there they'll never vex me, nor be remembered mair ;
His bluid has made me white, his hand shall wipe mine ee,
When he brings me hame at last to my ain countree.

Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest,
I wud fain be ganging noo unto my Saviour's breast;
For he gathers in his bosom, witless, worthless lambs like

me,
An' he carries them himself to his ain countree.

He's faithfu' that has promised, he'll surely come again ;
He'll keep his tryst wi' me, at what hour I dinna ken;
But he bids me still to watch, an' ready ay to be
To gang at ony moment to my ain countree.

So I'm watching aye an' singing o' my hame as I wait,
For the soun'ing o' his footsteps this side the gowden gate.
God gie his grace to ilka ane wha listens noo to me,
That we a' may gang in gladness to our ain countree.

ANONYMOUS.

Nearer Home.

ON

NE sweetly solemn thought

Comes to me o'er and o'er-
I am nearer my home to-day

Than I've ever been before :

Nearer my Father's house,

Where the many mansions be:
Nearer the Great White Throne,

Nearer the Jasper sea:

Nearer the bound of life,

Where we lay our burdens down ;
Nearer leaving the cross,

Nearer gaining the crown!

But lying darkly between,

Winding down through the night,
Is the silent unknown stream

That leads at last to the light.

Closer and closer my steps

Come to the dread abysm;
Closer Death to my lips

Presses the awful chrism.

Father, perfect my trust!

Strengthen my feeble faith!
Let me feel as I would, when I stand

On the shore of the river of Death.

THE GENIUS OF DEATH.

411

Feel as I would, when my feet

Are slipping over the brink; For it may be, I'm nearer home, Nearer now than I think.

PHEBE CAREY.

The Genius of Death. WHAT

HAT is Death ? 't is to be free !

No more to love or hope or fear-
To join the great equality :
All alike are humbled here !

The mighty grave

Wraps lord and slave :
Nor pride nor poverty dares come
Within that refuge house, the tomb !

Spirit with the drooping wing,

And the ever-weeping eye,
Thou of all earth's kings art King !
Empires at thy footstool lie !

Beneath thee strewed

Their multitude
Sink like waves upon the shore :
Storms shall never rouse them inore !

What's the grandeur of the earth

To the grandeur round thy throne ?
Riches, glory, beauty, birth,
To thy kingdom all have gone.

Before thee stand

The wondrous band,
Bards, heroes, sages, side by side,
Who darkened nations when they died !

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