Where is my grave? On the battle plain, Where is my grave? 'Neath some foreign sky Where is my grave? In the burning sand Shall I sleep when my toil and my labour are o'er,— 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 ! And the Lamb is the light of a sunless sky; 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, Why live we then for fleeting hours, Ours be the sunshine of a face That knows no shade or frown, 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, If we, God's conscious creatures, knew 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 May change, but never dies. Ye dead leaves dropping soft and slow, 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, 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 His mother for a guest; |