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They shall not wander from that blessed way;
Nor heat, nor cold, nor weariness, nor sin,
But all is rest to them whose world-worn feet
Thus the gates close and I behold no more,
Though, as I walk, they open oftener now
And think of those dear souls whose world-worn feet
Tired, very tired !-but I will patient be,
Nor will I murmur at the weary way:
When thou, oh Lord, shalt let my world-worn feet
WILLIAM O. STODDARD.
[Lines found under the pillow of a soldier who died in hospital at Port Royal.]
My good right hand forgets
Its cunning now;
I know not how.
I am not eager, bold,
Nor strong—all that is past;
At last, at last.
My half-day's work is done,
And this is all my part-
My patient heart;
And grasp his banner still,
Though all the blue be dim;
Lead after him.
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:
E’en in its very motion there was rest,
Wafted the traveler to the beauteous west.
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,
JOHN WILSON. MY AIN COUNTREE.
My Ain Countree.
AM far from my hame an’ I'm weary often whiles
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
My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae been sair,
Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest,
He's faithfu' that has promised, he'll surely come again ;
So I'm watching aye an' singing o' my hame as I wait,
NE sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o'er and o'er-
Than I've ever been before :
Nearer my Father's house,
Where the many mansions be:
Nearer the Jasper sea:
Nearer the bound of life,
Where we lay our burdens down ;
Nearer gaining the crown!
But lying darkly between,
Winding down through the night,
That leads at last to the light.
Closer and closer my steps
Come to the dread abysm;
Presses the awful chrism.
Father, perfect my trust!
Strengthen my feeble faith!
On the shore of the river of Death.
THE GENIUS OF DEATH.
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.
The Genius of Death. WHAT
HAT is Death ? 't is to be free !
No more to love or hope or fear-
The mighty grave
Wraps lord and slave :
Spirit with the drooping wing,
And the ever-weeping eye,
Beneath thee strewed
What's the grandeur of the earth
To the grandeur round thy throne ?
Before thee stand
The wondrous band,