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Press onward through each varying hour;
Let no weak fears thy course delay:
Immortal being! feel thy power,

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,
From the land where the roses of Sharon smile,
From the palms that wave through the Indian sky,
From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby.

"We have swept o'er the cities in song renown'd,——
Silent they lie with the deserts round;
We have cross'd proud rivers, whose tide has roll'd
All dark with the warrior-blood of old;

And each worn wing has regained its home
'Neath the peasant's roof-tree, or monarch's dome."

And what have ye found in the monarch's dome
Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam?
"We have found a change: we have found a pall,
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall,
And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt:
Nought looks the same, save the nest we built."

Oh, joyous birds, it hath still been so,

Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go!
But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep,
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep :
Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot,
Since last ye parted from that sweet spot?

"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,
And the place is hushed where the children play'd:
Nought looks the same, save the nest we made."

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth,
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth!
Yet through the wastes of the trackless air
Ye have a Guide, and shall we despair?
Ye o'er desert and deep have pass'd,-
So shall we reach our bright home at last.

MRS. HEMANS.

The Hidden May.

CANNOT plainly see the way,

So dark the grave is; but I know
If I do truly love and pray,

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
From its clay house; or, restless, bow,

Asking the shadows if they mean
To darken always, dim as now?

Why should I vainly seek to solve
Free will, necessity, the fall?
I feel, I know, that God is love,-
And knowing this, I know it all.

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,
And spent the weary day;

I've fought the fight, the battle won,
And now must haste away:

for me

Henceforth there is laid up
A crown, through all eternity?

A crown by hands eternal wove,
Meet for a child of God,

Gem'd with the jewels of His love,
And purchased with His blood;

Which human hands could ne'er have wrought,
And human merit ne'er have bought.

Farewell the cross 'neath which so long
I've watched and wept below,

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.'
"Oh grave, where is thy victory?"

MONSELL.

HERE is my grave?

W

'Mid the silent dead

Of the churchyard throng shall I lay my head?
Shall I sleep in peace with those who erst

In happier years my childhood nurst,

With them beneath the same green sod,
My soul with theirs gone to meet its God?

Where is my grave? In the mighty deep,
'Mid the treasures of ocean-caves shall I sleep
With those who have slept there for ages before,
Far from their loved and native shore,-
The sand my bed and the rock my pillow,
And cradled to rest by the tossing billow?

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