With gradual toil the work went on, through days and months and years,

Beneath the summer's laughing sun, and winter's frozen tears;

And thus in majesty sublime and noiseless pomp it rose,Fit dwelling for the God of Peace,-a temple of repose!

Brethren in Christ! to holier things the simple type apply; Our God himself a temple builds, eternal and on high,

Of souls elect; their Zion there-that world of light and bliss;

Their Lebanon-the place of toil-of previous mouldingthis.

From nature's quarries, deep and dark, with gracious aim he hews

The stones, the spiritual stones, it pleaseth him to choose: Hard, rugged, shapeless at the first, yet destined each to shine,

Moulded beneath his patient hand, in purity divine.

Oh, glorious process! see the proud grow lowly, gentle, meek;

See floods of unaccustomed tears gush down the hardened

cheek:

Perchance the hammer's heavy stroke o'erthrew some idol

fond;

Perchance the chisel rent in twain some precious, tender bond.

Behold, he prays whose lips were sealed in silent scorn before,

Sighs for the closet's holy calm, and hails the welcome door: Behold, he works for Jesus now, whose days went idly past; Oh for more mouldings of the hand that works a change so vast!

Ye looked on one, a well-wrought stone, a saint of God matured,

What chiselings that heart had felt, what chastening strokes endured!

But marked ye not that last soft touch, what perfect grace it

gave,

Ere Jesus bore his servant home across the darksome wave?~

Home to the place his grace designed that chosen soul to fill,

In the bright temple of the saved, “upon his holy hill;"

Home to the noiselessness, the peace, of those sweet shrines above, Whose stones shall never be displaced- - set in redeeming

love.

Lord! chisel, chasten, polish us, each blemish work away, Cleanse us with purifying blood, in spotless robes array; And thus, thine image on us stamped, transport us to the shore,

Where not a stroke is ever felt, for none is needed more.

THE SEXTON.-PARK BENJAMIN.

Nigh to a grave that was newly made,
Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade;
His work was done, and he paused to wait
The funeral-train at the open gate.

A relic of by-gone days was he,

And his locks were gray as the foamy sea;
And these words came from his lips so thin:
"I gather them in-I gather them in-
Gather-gather-I gather them in.

"I gather them in; for man and boy,
Year after year of grief and joy,
I've builded the houses that lie around
In every nook of this burial ground.
Mother and daughter, father and son,
Come to my solitude one by one;

But come they stranger, or come they kin,
I gather them in-I gather them in.

"Many are with me, yet I'm alone;

I'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne
On a monument slab of marble cold-
My sceptre of rule is the spade I hold.

Come they from cottage, or come they from hall,
Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all!

May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin,
I gather them in-I gather them in.

"I gather them in, and their final rest

Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast!"
And the sexton ceased as the funeral-train
Wound mutely over that solemn plain;
And I said to myself: When time is told,
A mightier voice than that sexton's old,
Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din
"I gather them in-I gather them in-
Gather-gather-gather them in."

A DIRGE.-GEORGE CROLY.

"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"
Here the evil and the just,
Here the youthful and the old,
Here the fearful and the bold,
Here the matron and the maid,
In one silent bed are laid;
Here the vassal and the king
Side by side lie withering;

Here the sword and sceptre rust

"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"

Age on age shall roll along

O'er this pale and mighty throng;
Those that wept them, they that weep,
All shall with these sleepers sleep;
Brothers, sisters of the worm,
Summer's sun, or winter's storm,
Song of peace, or battle's roar,

Ne'er shall break their slumbers more;
Death shall keep his sullen trust-
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"

But a day is coming fast--
Earth, thy mightiest and thy last!
It shall come in fear and wonder,
Heralded by trump and thunder;
It shall come in strife and toil,
It shall come in blood and spoil;
It shall come in empires' groans,
Burning temples, ruined thrones;
Then, ambition, rue thy lust!
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust!"

Then shall come the judgment sign;
In the east the King shall shine,
Flashing from heaven's golden gate,
Thousands, thousands, round his state:
Spirits with the crown and plume;
Tremble then, thou sullen tomb!
Heaven shall open on thy sight,
Earth be turned to living light,-
Kingdom of the ransomed just :
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust."

Then thy mount, Jerusalem,
Shall be gorgeous as a gem!
Then shall in the desert rise
Fruits of more than Paradise ;
Earth by angel feet be trod,
One great garden of her God!
Till are dried the martyr's tears,
Through a thousand glorious years!
Now in hope of him we trust-
"Earth to earth, and dust to dust."

A MODEL LOVE-LETTER.

MY DEAR MRS. M—:

Every time I think of you, my heart flops up and down like a churn-dasher. Sensations of exquisite joy caper over it like young goats on a stable-roof, and thrill through it like Spanish needles through a pair of tow linen trowsers. As a gosling swimmeth with delight in a mud-paddle, so swim I in a sea of glory. Visions of ecstatic rapture thicker than the hairs of a blacking-brush, and brighter than the hues of a humming-bird's pinions, visit me in my slumbers, and borne on their invisible wings, your image stands before me, and I reach out to grasp it like a pointer snapping at a blue-bottle fly.

When I first beheld your angelic perfections, I was bewildered, and my brain whirled around like a bumble-bee under a glass tumbler. My eyes stood open like cellar doors in a country town, and I lifted up my ears to catch the silvery accents of your voice. My tongue refused to wag, and in silent adoration I drank in the sweet infection of love as a

thirsty man swalloweth a tumbler of hot whisky punch. Since the light of your face fell upon my life, I sometimes feel as if I could lift myself up by my boot-straps to the top of the church-steeple, and pull the bell-rope for singingschool.

Day and night you are in my thoughts. When Aurora, blushing like a bride, rises from her saffron colored couch; when the jay-bird pipes his tuneful lay in the apple-tree by the spring-house; when the chanticleer's shrill clarion heralds the coming morn; when the awaking pig ariseth from his bed and grunteth, and goeth for his morning's refreshments; when the drowsy beetle wheels his droning flight at sultry noontide; and when the lowing herds come home at milking-time, I think of thee; and like a piece of gum-elas tic, my heart seems stretched clear across my bosom.

Your hair is like the mane of a sorrel horse powdered with gold; and the brass pins skewered through your waterfall fill me with unbounded awe. Your forehead is smoother than the elbow of an old coat; your eyes are glorious to behold; in their liquid depths I see legions of little Cupids bathing, like a cohort of ants in an old army cracker. When their fire hit me upon my manly breast, it penetrated my whole anatomy, as a load of bird-shot through a rotten apple. Your nose is from a chunk of Parian marble, and your mouth is puckered with sweetness. Nectar lingers on your lips, like honey on a bear's paw; and myriads of unfledged kisses are there, ready to fly out and light somewhere, like blue-birds out of their parents' nest. Your laugh rings in my ears like the wind-harp's strain, or the bleat of a stray lamb on a bleak hillside. The dimples on your cheeks are like bowers on beds of roses, or hollows in cakes of home-made sugar.

I am dying to fly to thy presence, and pour out the burning eloquence of my love, as a thrifty housekeeper pours out hot coffee. Away from you I am melancholy as a sick rat. Sometimes I can hear the June bugs of despondency buzzing in my ears, and feel the cold lizards of despair crawling down my back. Uncouth fears, like a thousand minnows, nibble at my spirits; and my soul is pierced with doubts, as an old cheese is bored with skippers.

My love for you is stronger than the smell of Coffey's pat