Long, long afterward, in an oak,
I found the arrow still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
LONGFELLOW.

REST.

WHEN round the earth the Father's hand

Has gently drawn the dark,

Sent off the sun to fresher lands,

And curtained in the lark,
"Tis sweet, all tired with glowing day
To fade with fading light;
To lie once more the weary way
Upfolded in the night.

If mothers o'er our slumbers bend

And unripe kisses reap,

In soothing dreams with sleep they blend,
Till even in dreams we sleep.

And if we wake while night is dumb,
"Tis sweet to turn and say,

It is an hour ere dawning come,
And I will sleep till day.

There is a dearer, warmer bed,
Where one all day may lie,
Earth's bosom pillowing the head,
And let the world go by.
There come no watching mother's eyes;

The stars instead look down,

Upon it breaks and silent dies,

The murmur of the town.

The great world shouting forward fares. This chamber, hid from none,

Hides safe from all, for no one cares

For him whose work is done.

Cheer thee, my friend, bethink thee how

A certain unknown place,

Or here or there, is waiting now

To rest thee from thy race.

Nay, nay, not there, the rest from harms,
The slow composed breath,
Not there the folding of the arms,

Not there the sleep of death;
It needs no curtained bed to hide
The world with all its wars;

No grassy cover to divide

From sun and moon and stars.

There is a rest that deeper grows
In midst of pain and strife,
A mighty, conscious, willed repose,
The death of deepest life.

To have and hold the precious prize
No need of jealous bars;

But windows open to the skies,

And skill to read the stars.

Who dwelleth in that secret place,
Where tumult enters not,

Is never cold with terror base,

Never with anger hot.

For if an evil host should dare
His very heart invest,

God is His deeper heart, and there
He enters into rest.

When mighty sea-winds madly blow,
And tear the scattered waves,
Peaceful as summer woods, below
Lie darkling ocean caves;

The wind of words may toss my heart,

But what is that to me;

'Tis but a surface storm-thou art

My deep, still, resting sea.

GEO. MACDONALD.

CARL.

CURLY-haired Carl! Were a blithesomer mate

For a ride o'er the snow to be wished for than he?

Yet it were well not to linger too late;

The pines are in shadow, the flakes dance and flee, Crisp on the white ground the patter and clack

Of hoofs beating briskly; and sharp through the air Rise ripples of laughter; the bridles hang slack,

And hand touches hand. She is frolic and fair, Sunny-eyed Marguerite, brightest of girls,

With teeth gleaming whitely, and tumble of curls.

"You! Gallant Carl, so they call you! No doubt, Bayard the brave were a whipster to you." Gretchen the winsome can wickedly flout

Red curling lips, and arch eyes flashing blue Wing home her taunts. So he flushes and sets

Teeth under lips that are wreathed in a smile. "Now truce, mocking sprite, to your feigned regrets At fair chivalry's flight. Give me glances the while, And what man may dare to win loyalty's meed, I, Carl, and no Bayard, will venture at need."

Quick rings her laughter, sledge-bell at full flight
Never sounded more silvery musical. "You?
Easy is talking, sir spur-lacking knight,

Were death at my lips, sirrah, what would you do?" Curly-haired Carl bendeth suddenly. "Hawk

Should stoop straight to its quarry," laughs she, as

her lips

Deftly evade him. "Sir Carl, you can talk,

But you do not strike home; feeble sword, sir, that slips. What dare you for love?" Smileth Carl, "it were best, Oh, vow-flouting lady, to wait till the test!"

-

On through the snow; for the wood-shadows blacken, The night wind is waking, the pine branches sigh, They laugh as they fly; for their speed may not slacken. "Now swift! Stride for stride, Carl!" Hist! What is

that cry?

Faces, mirth-flushed and wind-beaten, grow white,

Deep bite the spur-points, and bridles shake free ; Didst e'er hear the yelling of wolves through the night! Harsh, hoarse devil's music that murders all glee. Now Brocken, now Fleetfoot, give proof of your pace, For hundred-mouthed death is behind in full chase!

One breathless mile is ticked off from the three

By heart-beats that throb to the pulses of fear; Swift! Flash along! Flying skirts, tresses free;

For death on the track yelleth near and more near. Courage!" cries Carl, "we've the pace of them yet." White is her face, and her breath shudders short; Watchful his eyes, and his teeth tightly set,

Bravo, bravo Brocken! well leapt ! never port More eagerly looked for by storm-driven bark

Than the red village lights as they flash through the dark.

Two preathless miles! But the swift-sweeping pack
Of mad, yelling demons, have gained in their flight.
O God! half a mile; and her gallop is slack!

Those hell-litten eyes how they gieam through the night!

But one minute more! Gracious heaven above!

Too late? Now the test! His voice ringeth loud: "Ride on, and farewell! But remember for love!" Then right in the path of the hideous crowd

Brave Carl hath drawn bridle, and leapt to the ground, And a hundred hot hell-hounds have hemmed him around.

Yon little brown woman, belle Marguerite? Nay,
Brave Carl as you know, is beau-garcon no more.
Those devil-hounds marked him. We fellows made play
Not a second too soon. Ah! the hideous roar

Of rage and base fear from that hot-throated pack
As we plunged, heaven sent, through the pines in their

rear,

Two dozen lank demons stretched dead in a crack!
But Carl, gallant Carl! Oh the sickening fear
That struck to my heart as I lifted his head,
His bonny boy-face all so furrowed and red!

He lived, scarred and seamed as you know him. I hold
No battle-marks borne with more honor. But she?
Beauty seeks beauty. She shrank and grew cold
Slowly, half ashamed, but the thing had to be,
Not heart enough for the trial? Just so
Many a winsome one fails at the push.

Carl has the little brown woman-I know

She hasn't belle Marguerite's sparkle and flush: But she has the secret that sets her above,

The shallow bright sort. She would die, sir, "for love."