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Oh, many a time, with a careless hand,

I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand,

And paddled it down where the stream runs quick,
Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick,
And laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side,
And looked below in the broken tide,

To see that the faces and boats were two,
That were mirrored back from the old canoe.

But now, as I lean o'er the crumbling side,
And look below in the sluggish tide,
The face that I see there is graver grown,
And the laugh that I hear has a soberer tone,
And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings
Have grown familiar with sterner things.

But I love to think of the hours that sped

As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed,
Ere the blossoms waved, or the green grass grew
O'er the mouldering stern of the old canoe.

EMILY REBECCA PAGE.

Only Waiting.

A very old man in an alms-house was asked what he was doing now He replied, "Only waiting."

ONLY waiting till the shadows

Are a little longer grown;

Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown;
Till the night of earth is faded

From the heart once full of day;
Till the stars of heaven are breaking
Through the twilight soft and gray.

Only waiting till the reapers

Have the last sheaf gathered home;

For the summer-time is faded,

And the autumn winds have come.
Quickly, reapers, gather quickly

The last ripe hours of my heart,
For the bloom of life is withered,
And I hasten to depart.

Only waiting till the angels

Open wide the mystic gate,
At whose feet I long have lingered,
Weary, poor, and desolate.

Even now I hear the footsteps,
And their voices far away;
If they call me, I am waiting,
Only waiting to obey.

Only waiting till the shadows
Are a little longer grown;
Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown;
Then from out the gathered darkness,
Holy, deathless stars shall rise,
By whose light my soul shall gladly
Tread its pathway to the skies.

FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE.

The Burial of Moses.

“And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over agains Beth-peor; ont no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." DEUT xxxiv: 6.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave;

But no man dug that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e'er,

For the angels of God upturned the sod,

And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the tramping,
Or saw the train go forth;
Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes when the night is done,

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun,—

Noiselessly as the spring-time
Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills
Open their thousand leaves,—
So, without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept,
Silently down from the mountain crown
The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle,

On gray Beth-peor's height, Out of his rocky eyrie,

Looked on the wondrous sight. Perchance the lion, stalking,

Still shuns the hallowed spot;

For beast and bird have seen and heard

That which man knoweth not.

Lo! when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed, and muffled drum,

Follow the funeral car.

They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,

And after him lead his masterless steed, While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land

Men lay the sage to rest,

And give the bard an honored place,
With costly marble dressed,
In the great minster transept,

Where lights like glories fall,

And the choir sings, and the organ rings
Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the bravest warrior
That ever buckled sword;
This the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word;
And never earth's philosopher
Traced, with his golden pen,
On the deathless page, truths half so sage
As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor?
The hill-side for his pall,

To lie in state while angels wait,

With stars for tapers tall;

And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave;

And God's own hand, in that lonely land,

To lay him in the grave,—

In that deep grave, without a name,

Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again,-O wondrous thought!—

Before the judgment day;

And stand, with glory wrapped around,

On the hills he never trod,

And speak of the strife that won our life,
With the incarnate Son of God.

O lonely tomb in Moab's land!
O dark Beth-peor's hill!

Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.

God hath his mysteries of grace,—
Ways that we cannot tell;

He hides them deep, like the secret sleep

Of him he loved so well.

CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER

Milton's Prayer of Patience.

I AM old and blind!

Men point at me as smitten by God's frown;
Afflicted and deserted of my kind,

Yet am I not cast down.

I am weak, yet strong:

I murmur not that I no longer see;
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,
Father Supreme, to Thee.

O merciful One!

When men are farthest, then art Thou most near; When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun, Thy chariot I hear.

Thy glorious face

Is leaning towards me, and its holy light
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place,-
And there is no more night.

On my bended knee,

I recognize Thy purpose, clearly shown;
My vision thou hast dimmed, that I may see
Thyself Thyself alone.

I have naught to fear;

This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing;
Beneath it I am almost sacred,-here

Can come no evil thing.

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