.

The depths of the untrodden wilderness,

And she shall teach thee. Thou hast learned before
One lesson-and her Hymn of Death hath fallen
With melancholy sweetness on thine ear,

Yet she shall tell thee with a myriad tongue
That life is there-life in uncounted forms-
Stealing in silence through the hidden roots,
In every branch that swings-in the green leaves
And waving grain, and the gay summer flowers
That gladden the beholder. Listen now,
And she shall teach thee that the dead have slept
But to awaken in more glorious forms—
And that the mystery of the seed's decay
Is but the promise of the coming life.
Each towering oak that lifts its living head
To the broad sunlight, in eternal strength,
Glories to tell thee that the acorn died.

The flowers that spring above their last year's grave

Are eloquent with the voice of life and hope

And the green trees clap their rejoicing hands,
Waving in triumph o'er the earth's decay!
Yet not alone shall flower and forest raise
The voice of triumph and the hymn of life.
The insect brood are there!-each painted wing
That, flutters in the sunshine, broke but now
From the close cerements of a worm's own shroud,
Is telling, as it flies, how life may spring
In its glad beauty from the gloom of death

Where the crushed mould beneath the sunken foot
Seems but the sepulchre of old decay;

Turn thou a keener glance, and thou shalt find
The gathered myriads of a mimic world.
The breath of evening and the sultry morn
Bears on its wing a cloud of witnesses

That earth from her unnumbered caves of death
Sends forth a mightier tide of teeming life;
Raise then the Hymn to Immortality!
The broad green prairies and the wilderness,
And the old cities where the dead have slept,
Age upon age, a thousand graves in one,
Shall yet be crowded with the living forms
Of myriads, waking from the silent dust.

Kings that lay down in state, and earth's poor slaves,
Resting together in one fond embrace,

The white-haired patriarch and the tender babe,
Grown old together in the flight of years.
They of immortal fame and they whose praise
Was never sounded in the cars of men,—
Archon and priest, and the poor common crowd,—
All the vast concourse in the halls of death,—

ONE HUNDRED CHOICE SELECTIONS.

Shall waken from the dreams of silent years

bail the dawn of the immortal day.

Aye, learn the lesson! Though the worm shall be
Thy brother in the mystery of death,

And all shall pass, humble and proud and gay
Together, to earth's mighty charnel-house,
Yet the Immortal is thy heritage!

The grave shall gather thee: yet thou shalt come,
Beggar or prince, not as thou wentest forth
In rags or purple, but arrayed as those
Whose mortal puts on Immortality!

Then mourn not wher thou markest the decay
Of nature, and her solemn hymn of death
Steals with a note of sadness to thy heart.
That other voice, with its rejoicing tones,

Breaks from the mould with every bursting flower,
"O grave! thy victory!" And thou, oh, man!
Burdened with sorrow at the woes which crowd
Thy narrow heritage, lift up thy head
In the strong hope of the undying life,
And shout the Hymn to Immortality.
The dear departed that have passed away
To the still house of death, leaving thine own,
The gray-haired sire that died in blessing thee,
Mother, or sweet-lipped babe, or she who gave
Thy home the light and bloom of Paradise,-
They shall be thine again, when thou shalt pass
At God's appointment, through the shadowy vale,
To reach the sunlight of the Immortal Hills.
And thou that gloriest to lie down with kings,
Thine uncrowned head not lowlier than theirs,
Seek thou the loftier glory to be known

A king and priest to God!-when thou shalt pass
Forth from these silent walls to take thy place
With patriarchs and prophets and the blest
Gone up from every land to people heaven.
So live, that when the mighty caravan,
Which halts one night-time in the vale of Death,
Shall strike its white tents for the morning march,
Thou shalt mount onward to the Eternal Hills,
Thy foot unwearied, and thy strength renewed
Like the strong eagle's for the upward flight!

THE SHEPHERD OF THE PEOPLE.

REV. PHILLIPS BROOKS.

So let him lie here in our midst to-day, and let our people go and bend with solemn thoughtfulness and look upon his face and read the lessons of his burial. As be paused here on his journey from his Western home and told us what by the help of God he meant to do, so let him pause upon his way back to his Western grave and tell us, with a silence more cloquent than words, how bravely, how truly, by the strength of God he did it. God brought him up as he brought David up from the sheepfolds to feed Jacob his people, and Israel his inheritance. He came up in earnestness and faith, and he goes back in triumph. As he pauses here to-day, and from his cold lips bids us bear witness how he has met the duty that was laid on him, what can we say out of our full hearts but this "He fed them with a faithful and true heart, and ruled them prudently with all his power." The Shepherd of the People! that old name that the best rulers ever craved. What ruler ever won it like this dead President of ours? He fed us faithfully and truly. He fed us with counsel when we were in doubt, with inspiration when we sometimes faltered, with caution when we would be rash, with calm, clear, trustful cheerfulness through many an hour when our hearts were dark. He fed hungry souls all over the country with sympathy and consolation. He spread before the whole land feasts of great duty and devotion and patriotism on which the land grew strong. He fed us with solemn, solid truths. He taught us the sacredness of government, the wickedness of treason. He made our souls glad and vigorous with the love of Liberty that was in his. He showed us how to love truth and yet be charitable-how to hate wrong and all oppression, and yet not treasure one personal injury or insult He fed all his people from the highest to the lowest, from the most privileged down to the most enslaved. Best of all, he fed us with a reverent and genuine religion. He spread before us the love and

fear of God just in that shape in which we need them most, and out of his faithful service of a higher Master, who of us has not taken and eaten and grown strong? "He fed them with a faithful and true heart." Yes, till the last. For at the last, behold him standing with hand reached out to feed the South with Mercy and the North with Charity, and the whole land with Peace, when the Lord, who had sent him, called him and his work was done.

AN IRISH LETTER.

Tullymuccleserag, Parrish of Ballyraggett, near
Ballysluggathey, County of Kilkenny,
Ireland, Jinuary the 1th.

MY DEAR NEPHEW,-I haven't sent ye a letther since the last time I wrote to ye, bekase we have moved from our former place of livin' and I didn't know where a letther would find ye; but I now with pleasure take up me pin to inform ye of the death of yer own livin' uncle, Ned Fitzpatrick, who died very suddenly a few days ago afther a lingerin' illness of six weeks. The poor fellow was in violent convulsions the whole time of his sickness, lyin' perfectly quiet, and intirely speechless-all the while talkin' incoherently, and cryin' for wather. I had no opportunity of informin' ye of his death sooner, except I wrote to ye by the last post, which same went off two days before he died; and then ye would have postage to pay. I'am at a loss to tell what his death was occasioned by, but I fear it was by his last sickness, for he was niver well ten days togither durin' the whole of his confinement; and I believe his death was brought about by his aitin' too much of rabbit stuffed with pais and gravy, or pais and gravy stuffed with rabbit; but be that as it may, when he brathed his last, the docther gave up all hope of his recovery. I need'nt tell ye anything about his age, for ye well know that in June next he would have been just seventy-five years old lackin' ten months, and, had he lived till that time, would have been just six months

dead. His property now devolves to his next of kin, which all died some time ago, so that I expect it will be divided between us; and ye know his property, which was very large, was sold to pay his debts, and the remainder he lost at a horse race; but it was the opinion of ivery body at the time that he would have won the race if the baste he run aginst had'nt been too fast for him.

I niver saw a man in all my life, and the docthers all said so, that observed directions or took medicine betther than he did. He said he would as leve dhrink bitter as sweet if it had only the same taste, and ipecakana as wkisky-punch if it would only put him in the same humor for fightin'. But, poor sowl! he will niver ate or drink any more, and ye hav'nt a livin' relation in the world except meself and yer two cousins who were kilt in the last war. I can not dwell on the mournful subject any longer, and shall sale me letther with black salin'-wax, and put in it yer uncle's coat-of-arms. So I beg ye not to brake the sale when ye open the letther, and don't open it until two or three days afther ye resave this, and by that time ye will be well prepared for the sorrowful tidings. Yer old sweetheart sinds her love unknownst to ye. When Jarry McGhee arrives in America, ax him for this letther, and if he don't brung it from amongst the rest, tell him it's the one that spakes about yer uncle's death, and saled in black.

I remain yer affectionate ould grandmother,
BRIDGET OIIOOLEGOIN.

P. S.-Don't write till ye resave this.

N. B.-When yez come to this place, stop, and don't rade any more until my next.

DORA.-ALFRED TENNYSON.

WITH Farmer Allan at the farm abode
William and Dora. William was his son,

And she his neice. He often look'd at them,

And often thought "I'll make them man and wife.”