Heaven.

BE

EYOND these chilling winds and gloomy skies,-
Beyond death's cloudy portal-

There is a land where beauty never dies,

And love becomes immortal.

A land whose light is never dimmed by shade,
Whose fields are ever vernal,

Where nothing beautiful can ever fade,
But bloom for aye eternal.

We may not know how sweet its balmy air,
How bright and fair its flowers;

We may not hear the songs that echo there,
Through those enchanted bowers.

The city's shining towers we may not see,
With our dim earthly vision:

For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key
That opes these gates elysian.

But sometimes, where adown the western sky
The fiery sunset lingers,

Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly,
Unlocked by silent fingers:

And while they stand a moment half ajar,
Gleams from the inner glory

Stream lightly through the azure vault afar,
And half reveal the story.

O land unknown! O land of love divine !
Father all-wise, eternal,

Guide, guide these wandering, way-worn feet of mine

Unto those pastures vernal.

NANCY A. W. PRIEST..

I KNOW THOU HAST GONE.

Thou art gone to the Grave.

THOU

HOU art gone to the grave-but we will not deplore thee;

Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb, The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee, And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom.

Thou art gone to the grave--we no longer behold thee,
Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side;
But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee,
And sinners may hope since the Sinless has died.

423

Thou art gone to the grave—and its mansion forsaking,
Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long;
But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking,
And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song.

Thou art gone to the grave-but 't were wrong to deplore thee,

When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide; He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee, Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died. BISHOP HEBER.

I know Thou hast Gone.

I

KNOW thou hast gone to the house of thy rest,
Then why should my soul be so sad?

I know thou hast gone where the weary are blest,

And the mourner looks up and is glad!

Where Love has put off, in the land of its birth,
The stain it had gathered in this;

And Hope, the sweet singer that gladdened the earth,
Lies asleep on the bosom of bliss!

I know thou hast gone where thy forehead is starred
With the beauty that dwelt in thy soul,
Where the light of thy loveliness cannot be marred,
Nor thy heart be flung back from its goal;

I know thou hast drunk of the Lethe that flows
Through a land where they do not forget,
That sheds over memory only repose,
And takes from it only regret.

In thy far-away dwelling, wherever it be,
I believe thou hast visions of mine,

And the love that made all things a music to me
I have not yet learnt to resign;

In the hush of the night, on the waste of the sea
Or alone with the breeze on the hill,

I have ever a presence that whispers of thee,
And my spirit lies down and is still!

Mine eye must be dark, that so long has been dim, Ere again it may gaze upon thine:

But my heart has revealings of thee and thy home,
In many a token and sign;

I never look up with a vow to the sky,
But a light like thy beauty is there-

And I hear a low murmur like thine in reply,
When I pour out my spirit in prayer.

And though, like a mourner that sits by a tomb,
I am wrapped in a mantle of care-

Yet the grief of my bosom—oh, call it not gloom,— Is not the black grief of despair;

By sorrow revealed, as the stars are by night,
Far off a bright vision appears,

And Hope, like the rainbow, a creature of light,

Is born, like the rainbow, in tears.

THOMAS K. HERVEY.

MY FRIEND.

My Friend.

SIDE

IDE by side we are still, though a shadow
Between us doth fall;

We are parted, yet are not parted,
Not wholly and all.

For still you are round and about me,
Almost in my reach;

Though I miss the old pleasant communion
Of smile and of speech.

And I long to hear what you are seeing,
And what you have done,

Since the earth faded out from your vision,
And the heavens begun;

Since you dropped off the darkening fillet
Of clay from your sight,
And opened your eyes upon glory
Ineffably bright.

Though little my life has accomplished,
My poor hands have wrought,
I have lived what seemed to be ages
In feeling and thought

Since the time when our path grew so narrow
So near the unknown,

That I turned back from following after,

And you went on alone.

425

For we speak of you cheerfully, always,
As journeying on:

Not as one who is dead do we name you-
We say you are gone.

For how could we speak of you sadly,
We who watched while the grace
Of eternity's wonderful beauty
Grew over your face?

Do we call the star lost that is hidden
In the great light of morn?

Do we fashion a shroud for the young child
In the day it is born?

Yet behold! this were wise to their folly
Who mourn, sore distressed
When a soul that is summoned believing,
Enters into its rest!

PHOEBE CAREY.

A Year in Heaven.

AYEAR uncalendared; for what

Hast thou to do with mortal time? Its dole of moments entereth not

That circle, mystic and sublime,
Whose unreached center is the throne
Of Him, before whose awful brow
Meeting eternities are known

As but an everlasting now.
The thought removes thee far away,-

Too far,-beyond my love and tears; Ah, let me hold thee as I may,

And count thy time by earthly years!