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MY ANGEL GUIDE.
My Angel Guide.
GAZED down life's dim labyrinth,
A wildering maze to see,
And wild as wild could be ;
An angel came to me.
I knew him for a heavenly guide,
I knew him even then,
Among the sons of men ;
I knew him even then.
And as I leaned my weary head
Upon his proffered breast,
From out my place of rest,
Of Eden were more blest.
For there was light within my soul,
Light on my peaceful way; And all around the blue above
The clustering starlight lay ; And easterly I saw upreared
The pearly gates of day.
So, hand in hand we trod the wild,
My angel-love and I-
With tokens from the sky,
'Twas lifted—but to fly!
Again down life's dim labyrinth
I grope my way alone,
Black hurrying clouds are blown,
The sharp, bare thorns are sown.
Yet firm my foot, for well I know
The goal cannot be far;
Shines out one steady star-
EMILY C. JUDSON.
H! don't be sorrowful, darling,
And don't be sorrowful, pray; Taking the year together, my dear,
There isn't more night than day,
'Tis rainy weather, my darling,
Time's waves, they heavily run;
There isn't more cloud than sun.
We are old folks now, my darling,
Our hearts, they are growing gray; But taking the year all round, my dear,
You will always find the May.
We have had our May, my darling,
And our roses long ago, And the time of the year is coming, my dear,
For the silent night and the snow.
THE LAST LEAF.
And God is God, my darling,
Of night as well as of day,
Wherever He leads the way.
Ay! God of the night, my darling,
Of the night of death so grim;
The mossy marbles rest
In their bloom;
On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said-
In the snow.
But now his nose is thin,
Like a staff,
In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
At him here :
Are so queer!
And if I should live to be
In the spring-
OLIVER W. HOLMES.
WHAT THE END SHALL BE.
What the End shall be. WHEN another life is added
To the heaving, turbid mass; When another breath of being
Stains creation's tarnished glass ; When the first cry, weak and piteous,
Heralds long-enduring pain, And a soul from non-existence
Springs, that ne'er can die again; When the mother's passionate welcome,
Sorrow-like, bursts forth in tears,
It is well we cannot see
When across the infant features
Trembles the faint dawn of mind, And the heart looks from the windows
Of the eyes that were so blind; When the inarticulate murmurs
Syllable each swaddled thought, To the fond ear of affection
With a boundless promise fraught; Kindling great hopes for to-morrow
From that dull, uncertain ray,
It is well we cannot see
When the boy, upon the threshold
Of his all-comprising home, Puts aside the arm maternal
That enlocks him ere he roam;