Where is my grave? On the battle plain,
Where sleep in the warrior's bed the slain?
Where fiercely the rush of the war-steed past,
Where the tyrant hath fought and breathed his last,
And the foe and the friend one common bed share,—
Shall the place of my last repose be there?

Where is my grave? 'Neath some foreign sky
Shall I lay down my wearied limbs and die?
Far over mountain and far over wave
Shall the wild flowers bloom on my lonely grave,
In the land of the stranger, where none are near
To breathe the soft sigh and to shed the sad tear?

Where is my grave? In the burning sand
Of Afric's bright and sultry land

Shall I sleep when my toil and my labour are o'er,—
A weary shepherd on that far shore

With no record to tell, save the cross by my side,

Of what faith I had preach'd, in what hope I had died?

Where is my grave? It matters not where !
But my home beyond,-it is there! it is there
Where God wipes tears from every eye

And the Lamb is the light of a sunless sky;
Where, sin and death and sorrow o'er,

They who enter in go out no more.

MONSELL.

The Summer Day.

"The day goeth away, for the shadows of the evening are stretched out."

WEET summer day,-how calm, how bright,

How beautiful art thou,

Mirth waits around thy path of light,

And sunshine gilds thy brow:

The fairest flowers earth bestows

Are blooming at thy feet,

The gentlest, youngest breeze that blows,

Sighs round thee soft and sweet.

The soul, refresh'd and gladden'd, soars

Exultingly above!

And, lost in ecstacy, adores

God in His works of love;

But soon the longest, loveliest day

Yields up its short delight,
And smiles and sunshine fade away,
Wrapt in the clouds of night.

Why live we then for fleeting hours,
Whose beauty and whose bloom,—
Whose brightest scenes and fairest flowers
Smile only round the tomb?

Ours be the sunshine of a face

That knows no shade or frown,
A long bright summer day of grace
Whose sun no more goes down!

Mortality.

"And we shall be changed."

MONSELL.

E dainty mosses, lichens grey,

Pressed each to each in tender fold, And peacefully thus day by day Returning to your mould,—

Brown leaves that with aërial grace

Slip from your branch like birds a-wing,
Each leaving in the appointed place
Its bud of future spring;

If we, God's conscious creatures, knew
But half your faith in our decay,
We should not tremble as we do

When summon'd clay to clay.

But with an equal patience sweet,

We should put off this mortal year, In whatso'er new form is meet

Content to re-appear.

Knowing each germ of life He gives
Must have in Him its source and rise:
Being that of His being lives

May change, but never dies.

Ye dead leaves dropping soft and slow,
Ye mosses green and lichens fair,
Go to your graves as I will go,

For God is also there.

P

By the Author of "John Halifax."

MISCELLANEOUS.

"The Disciple whom Jesus Loved."

RE lies a little lonely isle

THERE

Where dark the salt waves run,
And Grecian fishers dry their nets
Against the Eastern sun:

And, many a hundred years ago,

Within that island fair

There dwelt an exiled Jewish man,—

A man of reverend air.

His eye was bright as setting suns,

His aged form unbent:

The little children following,

He blest them as he went.

That head beloved at supper-time
Had leant on Jesus' breast;
That honoured hand had taken home

His mother for a guest;