Of all we loved and honor'd, naught
Save power remains,—

A fallen angel's pride of thought,
Still strong in chains.

All else is gone; from those great eyes
The soul is fled :

When faith is lost, when honor dies,
The man is dead!

Then, pay the reverence of old days
To his dead fame :

Walk backward, with averted gaze,

And hide the shame!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

THE CITY.

THEY do neither plight nor wed

In the city of the dead,

In the city where they sleep away the hours;
But they lie, while o'er them range
Winter-blight and summer change,

And a hundred happy whisperings of flowers.
No, they neither wed nor plight,

And the day is like the night,

For their vision is of other kind than ours.

They do neither sing nor sigh,

In that burgh of by and by

Where the streets have grasses growing cool and

long;

But they rest within their bed,

Leaving all their thoughts unsaid,

Deeming silence better far than sob or song.

No, they neither sigh nor sing,

Though the robin be a-wing,

Though the leaves of autumn march a million

strong.

There is only rest and peace

In the City of Surcease

From the failings and the wailings 'neath the sun, And the wings of the swift years

Beat but gently o'er the biers,

Making music to the sleepers every one.

There is only peace and rest ;

But to them it seemeth best,

For they lie at ease and know that life is done.

RICHARD BURTON.

PRIVATE DEVOTION.

I LOVE to steal awhile away
From every cumbering care,
And spend the hours of setting day
In humble, grateful prayer.

I love, in solitude, to shed

The penitential tear;

And all his promises to plead,
Where none but God can hear.

I love to think on mercies past,
And future good implore;
And all my cares and sorrows cast
On Him whom I adore.

I love, by faith, to take a view
Of brighter scenes in heaven;
The prospect doth my strength renew,
While here by tempests driven.

Thus, when life's toilsome day is o'er,
May its departing ray

Be calm as this impressive hour,

And lead to endless day.

PHOEBE HINSDALE BROWN.

NOT KNOWING.

"Not knowing the things that shall befall me there."-Acts.

XX, 22.

I KNOW not what will befall me; God hangs a

mist o'er my eyes,

And thus, each step of my onward path, he makes new scenes arise,

And every joy he sends to me comes as a sweet surprise.

I see not a step before me as I tread on another

year,

But I leave the past in God's keeping, the future his mercy shall clear,

And what looks dark in the distance may brighten as I draw near.

For, perhaps the dreaded future is less bitter than I think ;

The Lord may sweeten the waters before I stoop to drink;

Or, if Marah must be Marah, he will stand beside its brink.

It may be he keeps waiting till the coming of my

feet,

Some gift of such rare blessedness, some joy so strangely sweet,

That my lips shall only tremble with the thanks they cannot speak.

O restful, blissful ignorance! 'Tis blessed not to

know;

It keeps me still in those mighty arms which will

not let me go,

And lulls my weariness to rest on the bosom that loves me so!

So I go on not knowing; I would not if I might; I would rather walk in the dark with God, than go alone in the light;

I would rather walk with him by faith than walk

alone by sight.

My heart shrinks back from trials which the future may disclose;

Yet I never had a sorrow but what the dear Lord

chose,

So I send the coming tears back with the whispered word He knows."

MARY G. BRAINARD.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

What the Heart of the Young Man said to the Psalmist.

TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow

Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.