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Her trembling fingers grasped the raiment cold,
Pungent with aloes, lying where He lay:
She smoothed her hands above it, fold by fold,-
Her Lord was stolen away!

And others came anon, who wept him sore,-
Simon and John, the women pale and spent
With fearful watchings; wondering more and more
They questioned, gazed,-and went.

Nor thus did Mary. Though the lingering gloom
Parted into brightness, and city's stir

Came floating upward to the golden tomb,
There was no dawn for her;-

No room for faintest hopes, nor utmost fears:
For when she sobbing stooped, and saw the twain
White-clothen angels, through her falling tears,
Sit where her Lord had lain,

And ask, "Why weepest thou?"- there brake no cry,
But she with deadened calm her answer made:
"Because they have taken away my Lord, and I
Know not where He is laid."

Was it a step upon the dewy grass?

Was it a garment rustled by the wind?

Did some hushed breathing o'er her senses pass,
And draw her looks behind?

She turned and saw-the very Lord she sought-
Jesus the newly-risen!-but no surprise

Held her astound and rooted to the spot;
Her filmed and holden eyes

Had only vision for the swathéd form;

Nor from her mantle lifted she her face,

Nor marveled that the gardener's voice should warm
With pity at her case;—

Till sprang the sudden thought, "If he should know: "-
And then she turned full quickly: "Sir, I pray
Tell me where thou hast borne Him, that I may go
And take Him thence away."

The resurrection-morning's broadening blaze

Shot up behind, and clear before her sight,

Centred on Jesus its transfiguring rays,
And hallowed him with light.

"Mary!"-The measureless pathos was the same
As when her Lord had said, "Thou art forgiven;"
Had He, for comfort, named her by her name
Out from the height of heaven?

She looked aloft-she listened, turned and gazed;
A revelation flashed across her brow;

One moment, and she prostrate fell, amazed,—
"Rabboni!-It is Thou!"

A NAME.-W. F. Fox.

Oh! give me a name that shall live forever,
Like the leaf of the immortelle;

And weave me a chain where no link may sever,
Nor lost, nor yet broken its spell:

For nearer the heart and e'en dearer by far

Than the love for aught else beside,

Is a name that shall shine like evening's bright star
When action and thought shall have died.

The laurel and cypress may wither and die,
The myrtle and olive grow pale,

The beauty may fade, that now beams in the eye,
And rust coat the armor and mail.

The leaves and the flowers may mingle with earth,
And sigh for the days that have flown;

And hearts now so free and so joyous with mirth,
May mourn for life's pleasures when gone;

The voice of the maiden may sober in tone,
And music may lose its soft thrill,

The proud soul may learn to yet struggle alone,
And drink of the cup she must fill;

The objects we cherish may yield to decay,
And all that is lovely may fade,

And life may grow dim like the twilight of day,
And rest 'neath the rock and the shade;

But yet if there live 'mid the shadows that fall,
A name-that has lived in the past,—

Whose light shall reflect upon Time's faded wall
The lustre its virtues have cast:

It will gladden the soul when life shall go down
To find, traced in letters of gold,

A name, that is richer by far than a crown
In thoughts and in deeds that were bold.

A HEBREW TALE.-MRS. SIGOURNEY.

Twilight was deepening with a tinge of eve,
As toward his home in Israel's sheltered vales
A stately Rabbi drew. His camels spied
Afar the palm-trees' lofty heads, that decked
The dear, domestic fountain,-and in speed
Pressed with broad foot the smooth and dewy glade.
The holy man his peaceful threshold passed

With hasting step. The evening meal was spread,
And she who from life's morn his heart had shared
Breathed her fond welcome. Bowing o'er the board,
The blessing of his fathers' God he sought,
Ruler of earth and sea. Then, raising high
The sparkling wine-cup, "Call my sons," he bade,
"And let me bless them ere their hour of rest."

The observant mother spake with gentle voice
Somewhat of soft excuse,-that they were wont
To linger long amid the Prophet's school,
Learning the holy law their father loved.

His sweet repast with sweet discourse was blent,
Of journeying and return.-" Would thou hadst seen
With me, the golden morning break to light
Yon mountain summits, whose blue, waving line
Scarce meets thine eye, where chirp of joyous birds,
And breath of fragrant shrubs, and spicy gales,
And sigh of waving boughs, stirred in the soul
Warm orisons. Yet most I wished thee near
Amid the temple's pomp, when the high priest,
Clad in his robe pontifical, invoked

The God of Abraham, while from lute and harp,
Cymbal and trump and psaltery and glad breath
Of tuneful Levite, and the mighty shout
Of all our people, like the swelling sea,
Loud hallelujahs burst. When next I seek
Blest Zion's glorious hill, our beauteous boys
Must bear me company. Their early prayers
Will rise as incense. Thy reluctant love
No longer must withhold them: the new toil
Will give them sweeter sleep, and touch their cheek
With brighter crimson. 'Mid their raven curls
My hand I'll lay, and dedicate them there,
Even in those hallowed courts, to Israel's God:
Two spotless lambs, well pleasing in his sight.
But yet, methinks, thou'rt paler grown, my love;
And the pure sapphire of thine eye looks dim,
As though 'twere washed with tears."

Faintly she smiled,—

"One doubt, my lord, I fain would have thee solve:
Gems of rich lustre and of countless cost
Were to my keeping trusted. Now, alas!
They are demanded. Must they be restored?
Or may I not a little longer gaze

Upon their dazzling hues?" His eye grew stern
And on his lip there lurked a sudden curl
Of indignation: "Doth my wife propose.
Such doubt? as if a master might not claim
His own again!" Nay, Rabbi, come behold
These priceless jewels ere I yield them back."
So to their spousal chamber with soft hand
Her lord she led. There, on a snow-white couch
Lay his two sons, pale, pale and motionless,
Like fair twin-lilies, which some grazing kid
In wantonness had cropped. "My sons! my sons!
Light of my eyes!" the astonished father cried;
"My teachers in the law,-whose guileless hearts
And prompt obedience warned me oft to be
More perfect with my God!”

To earth he fell,

Like Lebanon's rent cedar: while his breast
Heaved with such groans as when the laboring soul
Breaks from its clay companion's close embrace.
The mourning mother turned away and wept
Till the first storm of passionate grief was still;
Then, pressing to his ear her faded lip,
She sighed in tone of tremulous tenderness,
"Thou didst instruct me, Rabbi, how to yield
The summoned jewels: see, the Lord did give,
The Lord hath taken away."

"Yea," said the sire,
"And blessed be his name. Even for thy sake,
Thrice blessed be Jehovah." Long he pressed
On those cold, beautiful brows his quivering lip,
While from his eye the burning anguish rolled;
Then, kneeling low, those chastened spirits poured
Their mighty homage.

SIMON SHORT'S SON SAMUEL.

Shrewd Simon Short sewed shoes. Seventeen summers' speeding storms, - succeeding sunshine- successively saw Simon's small shabby shop standing staunch, saw Simon's

self-same sign still swinging, silently specifying: "Simon Short, Smithfield's sole surviving shoemaker. Shoes sewed, soled superfinely." Simon's spry sedulous spouse, Sally Short, sewed shirts, stitched sheets, stuffed sofas. Simon's six stout sturdy sons, Seth, Samuel, Stephen, Saul, Shadrach, Silas— sold sundries. Sober Seth sold sugar, starch, spices; Simple Sain sold saddles, stirrups, screws; Sagacious Stephen sold silks, satins, shawls; Skeptical Saul sold silver salvers, silver spoons; Selfish Shadrach sold shoe strings, soaps, saws, skates; Slack Silas sold Sally Short's stuffed sofas.

Some seven summers since, Simon's second son, Samuel, saw Sophia Sophronia Spriggs somewhere. Sweet, sensible, smart Sophia Sophronia Spriggs. Sam soon showed strange symptoms. Sam seldom stayed storing, selling saddles. Sam sighed sorrowfully, sought Sophia Sophronia's society, sang several serenades slily. Simon stormed, scolded severely, said Sam seemed so silly, singing such shameful, senseless

songs.

"Strange Sam should slight such splendid summer sales," said Simon. "Strutting spendthrift! shatter-brained simpleton !"

"Softly, softly, sire," said Sally; "Sam's smitten-Sam's spied sweetheart."

"Sentimental schoolboy!" snarled Simon; "Smitten! Stop such stuff!"

Simon sent Sally's snuff-box spinning, seizing Sally's scissors, smashed Sally's spectacles, scattering several spools. "Sneaking scoundrel! Sam's shocking silliness shall surcease!" Scowling Simon stopped speaking, starting swiftly shopward. Sally sighed sadly. Summoning Sam, she spoke sweet sympathy.

"Sam," said she, "sire seems singularly snappy: so, sonny, stop strolling sidewalks, stop smoking segars, spending spe cie superfluously; stop sprucing so; stop singing serenades -stop short: sell saddles, sonny; sell saddles sensibly; see Sophia Sophronia Spriggs soon; she's sprightly, she's staple, so solicit, sure; so secure Sophia speedily, Sam."

“So soon; so soon?" said Sam, standing stock still.

"So soon! surely," said Sally, smiling, "specially since sire shows such spirit."

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