Let every sacred fane

Call its sad votaries to the shrine of God,

And, with the cloister and the tented sod,
Join in one solemn strain!

He, who, till time shall cease,

Will watch that earth, where once, not all in vain, He died to give us peace, may not disdain

A prayer whose theme is

Perhaps ere yet the Spring

peace.

Hath died into the Suminer, over all

The land, the Peace of His vast love shall fall,

Like some protecting wing.

Oh, ponder what it means!

Oh, turn the rapturous thought in every way!
Oh, give the vision and the fancy play,
And shape the coming scenes!

Peace in the quiet dales,

Made rankly fertile by the blood of men,
Peace in the woodland, and the lonely glen,
Peace in the peopled vales!

12

SONGS FROM THE SOUTH-LAND.

Peace in the crowded town,

Peace in the thousand fields of waving grain,
Peace in the highway and the flowery lane,
Peace on the wind-swept down!

Peace on the farthest seas,

Peace in our sheltered bays and ample streams,
Peace whereso'er our starry garland gleams;
And peace in every breeze!

Peace on the whirring marts,

Peace where the scholar thinks the hunter roams,

Peace, God of Peace! Peace, peace, in all our homes, And peace in all our hearts!

LA BELLE JUIVE.

HENRY TIMROD.

Is it because your sable hair
Is folded over brows that wear
At times a too imperial air;

Or is it that the thoughts which rise
In those dark orbs do seek disguise
Beneath the lids of Eastern eyes;

That choose whatever pose or place
May chance to please, in you I trace
The noblest woman of your race?

The crowd is sauntering at its ease.

And humming like a hive of bees—
You take your seat and touch the keys,