Press onward through each varying hour; Pursue thy bright and endless way. ANDREWS NORTON. B Birds of Passage. IRDS, joyous birds of the wandering wing! Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring? "We come from the shores of the green old Nile, "We have swept o'er the cities in song renown'd,—— And each worn wing has regained its home And what have ye found in the monarch's dome Oh, joyous birds, it hath still been so, Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go! "A change we have found there, and many a change : Faces and footsteps and all things strange! Gone are the heads of the silvery hair ; And the young that were, have a brow of care, Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth, MRS. HEMANS. The Hidden May. CANNOT plainly see the way, So dark the grave is; but I know Some good will brighten out of woe. For the same Hand that doth unbind The winter winds, sends sweetest showers, And the poor rustic joys to find His April meadows full of flowers. I said I could not see the way, And yet what need is there to see, More than to serve Him as I may, And trust the Great Strength over me? Why should my spirit pine, and lean Asking the shadows if they mean Why should I vainly seek to solve ALICE CARY. I have fought the Good Fight. "I have fought the good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith; henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will give me at that day." M Y task is o'er, my work is done, I've fought the fight, the battle won, for me Henceforth there is laid up A crown by hands eternal wove, Gem'd with the jewels of His love, Which human hands could ne'er have wrought, Farewell the cross 'neath which so long And welcome now the harp and song That wait me where I go : Yet, oh, that cross must still be dear, Though borne through many a sorrow here! And oft throughout eternity, 'Mid all that's bright and blest, Its victory my joy shall be, And I will love it best; For 'twas through Him who died thereon My fight was fought, my battle won! My Grave. "The graves are ready for me.' MONSELL. HERE is my grave? W 'Mid the silent dead Of the churchyard throng shall I lay my head? In happier years my childhood nurst, With them beneath the same green sod, Where is my grave? In the mighty deep, |