The mighty Angel's final trump shall call
To life the slumbering dead.

Ye who have watched

The ebbing tide of life drift further out,
With every weary pulse, amid the mist
Of an eternal wave, until, at last,

All that was dear of earth was shrouded up
From tearful gaze! ye who have stood
Beside the open grave, and heard the dull
And hollow rumble of the falling clay
Upon the coffined clay below, then turned,
With mournful step and lonely heart, and left
Your treasure resting there! ye who with each
Returning May, have sought some cherished spot,
To drop affection's tear above the good,
The brave, the beautiful, that sadly there
Ye buried long ago,-what is your hope,

As back o'er memory's track, there distant comes
The lingering echo of those solemn words,
Repeating" Earth to earth, and dust to dust"-
What then, O mourner, is thy hope?

Hark to

The skeptic's cruel mocking whisper-" Death
Is an eternal sleep! Here is the end,
The dark, irrevocable end of all

Thy dream of love. Here all thy severed ties
Shall vainly stretch their lonely, longing arms
Beyond the tomb, and turn in horror back
Upon the frightful verge of nothingness,
And rayless, hopeless night. Here, all that binds
Thee now to one that was, but nevermore
Shall be, is but a heap of clay at best,

That still shall slumber on to mock thy tears,
And make remembrance bitter with the thought-
That all that thou hast loved is lost to thee,

And from all being lost forever!" Back!

Despairing fiend! 'Tis false! Nay, come not near
This hallowed spot, where rest our peaceful dead!
Thy voice is colder than the grave! To feel

Thy drowsy venom creeping o'er the heart,

Were worse than death. Avaunt! The shuddering soul Abhors the very thought; and, as she treads

With finite step a thousand avenues

That lead into the realm of mystery

She grasps the infinite. Her mortal power.
That strive to scale the battlements of time,
Best prove her immortality.

Look up,

Thou mourner at the tomb. The dead shall live
Again! Like as the flower, that, at the voice

Of spring, bursts from the cold, dark ground, so shall
The loved and beautiful awaken from

The lonely tomb, at voice Omnipotent,

To live forever. Jesus is thy hope,

Thy consolation. Lo, beside thee at

The weeping grave He stands and says, "I am
The Resurrection and the Life."

MY LOVER.-FLORENCE M'CURDY.

I stand in the doorway and wait for his coming
With my soul full of joy and my heart full of song;
Oh where, and oh where is my truant lad staying,
And I wonder, oh why does he tarry so long!

The birds are astir and the golden bees humming,
And my pulse beating fast at the click of the gate;
Serene are the skies and the rosy morn flushing,
And I yearn for my lover, who loiters so late.

The fields are abloom with the sweet-scented clover,
And the robins are building their spring nests above;
While faint on my ear comes the barking of Rover,
As I list for the voice of my lagging true love.

The drowsy, gay black bird his sweet song is singing;
For my lad's merry whistle I listen in vain ;
The sheep on the hillside have ceased their low bleating,
And I look for my lover o'er field and o'er lane.

The cattle are lowing, the roses are blushing,
And far down in the meadow my laggard I see,
While fresh on the air his gay laughter is ringing,
And so bright the wild flowers he's gathered for me.
Oh! with rapture and joy my proud heart is beating;
I'll whisper it softly, the name of my lover,
My brave-hearted gallant, for whom I am waiting;
My pride and my darling, my-wee, little brother.

THE TROLL-MAN.-CAROLINE M. HEWING

A DANISH LEGEND.

"Ho, skipper on the sea-shore!
Make ready boat and crew;
Be here to-morrow midnight,
And you'll have work to do."

The voice was old and feeble;
The skipper looked around,
And saw a little Troll-man

Come down from Elleshoi mound.

"I have no boat, good Troll-man,
Or money one to buy ;
My sailors all have left me-
A luckless man am I."

"Come hither," said the Troll-man,
And ran along the sand,
To where, on rocks uplifted,
A battered wreck did stand.

"To-morrow night at midnight
Come, bring a sailor here;
This vessel shall be ready;
You have no cause for fear;

"The miller in the village
Disturbs us night and day;
He ploughs above our houses;
We can no longer stay. ·

"The church-bells ring so often,
We cannot bear their din;
They make us think of heaven,
Which we can never win."

The little Troll-man vanished;
The skipper went to ask
A sailor, strong and fearless,
To help him in the task.

Some laughed at him, some shuddered;

At last a neighbor's lad

Said, "Take me with you, skipper,

And I'll fear nothing bad."

At midnight boy and skipper

All anchored found the wreck;
For sails, old rags were flapping;
The Troll was on the deck.

"The wind is fair!" he shouted;
"Make haste to Noroway."
The skipper heaved the anchor;
The wreck moved down the bay.

The skipper sought the cabin;
Of rats and mice 'twas full.
"Take this," outspoke the Troll-man,
And off his hat did pull.

Oh, wondrous change! The skipper
Saw gray-clad, red-capped Trolls,
Who bore upon their shoulders
Full many a sack of coals.

The wreck was swiftly nearing
A pine-encircled fiord;

"Go, sailors," said the Troll-man;

"At midnight come on board.

"In three days more be ready

Just where you found the wreck.

Another cargo waits you;

You'll find me on the deck."

The skipper took the Troll-folk Once more to Noroway. "Now," said the little Troll-man, "You will have earned your pay."

"A sack of coals for master, Of shavings for his man;

These are the Troll-folk's presents;
They give you all they can."

Next morning when the skipper
Looked down into the hold,
The shavings were all silver-
The coals were turned to gold.
The skipper's fine new vessel
Had for its figure-head
A little withered Troll-man,
Gray-clad, with cap of red.

THE STORY OF LITTLE MOSES.*

EUGENE J. HALL.

There was but a sparse congregation. The preacher "gave out" the opening hymn with a doleful drawl, which the choir sang to the accompaniment of a wheezy old melodeon. He then offered a characteristic prayer. The choir sang another hymn, after which he arose, advanced to the pulpit, opened the big Bible, apparently at random, glanced at it attentively for a few moments, closed it, stepped to the right and raising his eyes and touching the tips of his fingers together, he said in a husky falsetto voice:

66 6 She took for him an ark of bulrushes.'

He paused for several moments, then repeated the

text.

He walked to the left, gazed with a stare of astonishment at his auditors for several moments and then asked: "Who was Moses?"

He paused again, then repeated the question. The people present looked questioningly at each other as if each had given up the conundrum.

He returned to the right of the pulpit and placing one hand upon the cushion, leaned forward as if about to take the congregation into his confidence, and said: "Moses was a che-i-ld-a little che-i-ld-little Moses -Moses."

He drew a red bandanna handkerchief from his coattail pocket, wiped his mouth, laid his brilliant-colored handkerchief upon the pulpit and resumed his position at the left. Then continued:

"Who was his motha? Motha-motha. Oh, what a word-Oh, what a word-motha-motha. Who was the motha of the che-i-ld-the little che-i-ld-little MosesMoses?"

*This specimen of exaggerated pulpit oratory is taken from "Jacqueminot, a Romance of the Mississippi,'' by permission. Among Mr. Hall's contributions to this Series is his very popular heroic poem "Kate Shelly," to be found in No. 21.