For many generations past

Here is our family tree;

My mother's hands this Bible clasped,

She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear;
Who round the hearthstone used to close,
After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said
In tones my heart would thrill !
Though they are with the silent dead,
Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book
To brothers, sisters, dear;
How calm was my poor mother's look,
Who loved God's word to hear!
Her angel face, I see it yet!

What thronging memories come! Again that little group is met

Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,

Thy constancy I've tried;

When all were false, I found thee true,

My counsellor and guide.

The mines of earth no treasures give
That could this volume buy;
In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die!

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

GOD'S-ACRE.

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.

For Charlie's sake I will arise;

I will anoint me where he lies,
And change my raiment, and go in
To the Lord's house, and leave my sin
Without, and seat me at his board,
Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord.
For wherefore should I fast and weep,
And sullen moods of mourning keep?
I cannot bring him back, nor he,
For any calling, come to me.
The bond the angel Death did sign,
God sealed

for Charlie's sake, and mine.
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.

UNDER THE CROSS.

I CANNOT, cannot say, Out of my bruised and breaking heart, Storm-driven along a thorn-set way, While blood-drops start

From every pore, as I drag on,

"Thy will, O God, be done!"

THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE.

A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN.

To weary hearts, to mourning homes,
God's meekest Angel gently comes:
No power has he to banish pain,
Or give us back our lost again;
And yet in tenderest love our dear
And heavenly Father sends him here.

There's quiet in that Angel's glance,
There's rest in his still countenance !
He mocks no grief with idle cheer,

Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear;
But ills and woes he may not cure
He kindly trains us to endure.

Angel of Patience! sent to calm

Our feverish brows with cooling palm;
To lay the storms of hope and fear,
And reconcile life's smile and tear;
The throbs of wounded pride to still,
And make our own our Father's will!

O thou who mournest on thy way,
With longings for the close of day;
He walks with thee, that Angel kind,
And gently whispers, "Be resigned:
Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell
The dear Lord ordereth all things well!"
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

OVER THE RIVER.

OVER the river they beckon to me,

Loved ones who 've crossed to the farther side, The gleam of their snowy robes I see,

But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels who met him there,

The gates of the city we could not see : Over the river, over the river,

My brother stands waiting to welcome me.

Over the river the boatman pale

Carried another, the household pet; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,

Darling Minnie! I see her yet.

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And fearlessly entered the phantom bark; We felt it glide from the silver sands,

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark; We know she is safe on the farther side, Where all the ransomed and angels be:

Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none return from those quiet shores,

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; We hear the dip of the golden oars,

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail; And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts, They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the veil apart

That hides from our vision the gates of day; We only know that their barks no more

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river and hill and shore,

I shall one day stand by the water cold,

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar;
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,
To the better shore of the spirit land.

I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The angel of death shall carry me.

NANCY AMELIA WOODBURY PRIEST.

THE PLEASURES OF HEAVEN. THERE all the happy souls that ever were, Shall meet with gladness in one theatre; And each shall know there one another's face, By beatific virtue of the place. There shall the brother with the sister walk, And sons and daughters with their parents talk; But all of God: they still shall have to say, But make him all in all their theme that day: That happy day that never shall see night! Where he will be all beauty to the sight; Wine or delicious fruits unto the taste; A music in the ears will ever last; Unto the scent, a spicery or balm ; And to the touch, a flower, like soft as palm. He will all glory, all perfection, be, God in the Union and the Trinity! That holy, great, and glorious mystery Will there revealed be in majesty, By light and comfort of spiritual grace; The vision of our Saviour face to face, In his humanity! to hear him preach The price of our redemption, and to teach, Through his inherent righteousness in death, The safety of our souls and forfeit breath! What fulness of beatitude is here! What love with mercy mixéd doth appear! To style us friends, who were by nature foes! Adopt us heirs by grace, who were of those Had lost ourselves; and prodigally spent Our native portions and possessed rent! Yet have all debts forgiven us; an advance By imputed right to an inheritance In his eternal kingdom, where we sit Equal with angels, and co-heirs of it.

BEN JONSON.

I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.

I WOULD not live alway; I ask not to stay Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way;

The few lurid mornings that dawn on us here Are enough for life's joys, full enough for its cheer.

seraphim's song.

BEYOND the smiling and the weeping
I shall be soon;

Beyond the waking and the sleeping,
Beyond the sowing and the reaping,
I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!
Sweet hope!

Lord, tarry not, but come.

Beyond the blooming and the fading
I shall be soon;

Beyond the shining and the shading,
Beyond the hoping and the dreading,
I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Beyond the rising and the setting
I shall be soon;

Beyond the calming and the fretting,
Beyond remembering and forgetting,
I shall be soon.
Love, rest, and home!

Beyond the gathering and the strowing
I shall be soon;

Beyond the ebbing and the flowing,
Beyond the coming and the going,
I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Beyond the parting and the meeting
I shall be soon;

Beyond the farewell and the greeting,
Beyond this pulse's fever beating,
I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Beyond the frost chain and the fever
I shall be soon;

Beyond the rock waste and the river,
Beyond the ever and the never,
I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Sweet hope!

Lord, tarry not, but come.

HORATIUS BONAR.

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

I'm wearing awa', Jean,

Like snaw when its thaw, Jean,
I'm wearing awa'

To the land o' the leal.

There's nae sorrow there, Jean, There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, The day is aye fair

In the land o' the leal.

Ye were aye leal and true, Jean; Your task's ended noo, Jean, And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.

Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean,
She was baith guid and fair, Jean,
O, we grudged her right sair
To the land o' the leal!

Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean, My soul langs to be free, Jean, And angels wait on me

To the land o' the leal! Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, This warld's care is vain, Jean; We'll meet and aye be fain

In the land o' the leal.

LADY NAIRN.

UNDER THE VIOLETS.

HER hands are cold; her face is white;
No more her pulses come and go;
Her eyes are shut to life and light;
Fold the white vesture, snow on snow,
And lay her where the violets blow.
But not beneath a graven stone,

To plead for tears with alien eyes;
A slender cross of wood alone
Shall say, that here a maiden lies
In peace beneath the peaceful skies.
And gray old trees of hugest limb

Shall wheel their circling shadows round,
To make the scorching sunlight dim
That drinks the greenness from the ground,
And drop their dead leaves on her mound.
When o'er their boughs the squirrels run,
And through their leaves the robins call,
And, ripening in the autumn sun,

The acorns and the chestnuts fall, Doubt not that she will heed them all. For her the morning choir shall sing Its matins from the branches high, And every minstrel-voice of spring,