How holy the place as we gathered at night, 'Round the altar where peace ever dwelt, To join in an anthem of praise, and unite

In thanks which our ev'ry heart felt.

In his sacred, old seat, with his locks white as snow Sat the venerable form of my sire,

While mother sang low, as she rocked to and fro In the old easy chair by the fire.

The cottage is gone which my infancy knew,
And the place is despoiled of its charms;
My friends are all gathered beneath the sad yew,
And slumber in death's icy arms;

But often with rapture my bosom doth glow,
As I think of my home and my sire,

And the dearest of mothers, who sang long ago
In the old easy chair by the fire.

Things yet to Be.

ALFRED ELLISON.

OME say this world is an old, old world;

SOME

But it's always been new to me,

With its boundless range, and its ceaseless change,

And its hope for the things to be.

A new friend takes my hand

When the old ones pass away;

The old days die, but the light in the sky

Is the dawn of another day.

THINGS YET TO BE.

Some say this world is a cold, cold world;
But it's always been bright to me,

With its hearthstone fires, and its warm desires
For the things that are yet to be.

And if I must labor, I wait,

And trust to the fields I have sown;

For I know there is truth in the promise of youth,—

I shall sometime come to my own.

Some say this world is a sad, sad world;

But it's always been glad to me,

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For the brook never laughs like my soul, when it quaffs And feasts on the things to be.

The night comes on with its rest,

The morning comes on with its song,

The hours of grief are few and brief,

But joy is a whole life long.

Some say this world is a bad, bad world;

But it's always been good to me,

With its errors, there live dear hearts that forgive
And trust to the things to be.

This world is not old nor cold,

This world is not sad nor bad,

If you look to the right, forgetting the night,

And say to your soul, "Be glad."

To-morrow.

MY

S. W. GILLILAN.

life has reached the twilight hour; 'Mid the sunset shadows deep,

The tender love of my Father's voice

Is lulling my soul to sleep;

My empty arms are hungering

For the forms once cherished there,

But the Father hath taken them all away;

They needed a kindlier care.

One night when my life was young and strong,

I was crooning a lullaby

To my sweet wee tot, three summers old,

When the baby began to cry

For the dollies her mamma's hands had made;

And I soothed her childish sorrow

With the words: "Your babies are put away; You may have them again, to-morrow."

And now, as I travel the sunset way,
'Mid the twilight gloom so deep,
While my empty arms are hungering
For the forms once hushed in sleep,
The Father in love bends over me,
And there's hope instead of sorrow,
As He says: "Your babies are safe with Me;
You may have them again, to-morrow."

TO VIOLA IN HEAVEN.

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To Viola in Heaven.

JONATHAN W. GORDON.

I

AM alone:

To me the world hath lost its brow of gladness,
And dewy dawn,

And day and night have robed themselves in sadness,
And life hath naught for me but agony and madness ·
Since thou art gone.

Thy soul hath fled

To its bright sphere beyond death's river;
Whilst I am led,

In gloom and grief, along its shores forever;
And call thy name, but hear thy gentle voice-O never!
Since thou art dead.

Life's dream is o'er,

Its spell upon the heart's deep fountain broken

Forevermore:

But in each word thy lute-like voice hath spoken,
Thou still hast left me many a treasured token
In mem'ry's store.

All warm and bright

Thy soul on mine in each seems fondly glowing
In love's own light,

And on the dim, drear gloom of grief bestowing

A constant beam, pure as the stainless starlight, flowing From heaven to-night.

O! while the light

Of thy last smile upon my soul doth quiver,
As pure and bright

As day's last smile upon the blushing river,

Friend of my soul, I know thou art not gone forever,'T is only night.

The morn will rise;

And for this night an endless day be given,
When thy dear eyes,

Whose sad eclipse sheds darkness o'er life's even,
Will shine for me, in some bright, love-lit isle of heaven
Beyond the skies.

Jimmy's Wooing.

WILLIAM WALLACE HARNEY.

THE

HE wind came blowing out of the West,
And Jimmy mowed the hay;

The wind came blowing out of the West:
It stirred the green leaves out of their rest,
And rocked the bluebird up in his nest,
As Jimmy mowed the hay.

The swallows skimmed along the ground,
And Jimmy mowed the hay;

The swallows skimmed along the ground,
And rustling leaves made a pleasant sound,
Like children babbling all around-

As Jimmy mowed the hay.