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earth, the terse mandate of God falls loud and clear upon the race, " THOU SHALT NOT." And who can depict the terrors that gather about and haunt the guilty wretch who violates the prohibitiongoad and haunt him to his dying hour, even if swift destruction does not overtake him at the hands of the law. A fugitive and a vagabond, pursued through the earth by the sleepless and relentless Nemesis of vengeance, scourged by the scorpion lash of conscience, pale and wasted and haggard, he drags himself onward to a premature grave, or invokes the suicide's doom. Thus does the everlasting MUST confront the transgressor at every turn.

And as it is with individuals, so it is with nations. The track of centuries is strewn with the memorials of Jehovah's tremendous judgments upon States and Empires that would not obey his law “ The wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the NATIONS that forget God," is the record which six thousand years have confirmed. * The mills of the gods. grind slowly," but sooner or later retribution, resistless and appalling, closes the career of national injustice and wrong. So it has been in the past, so it is now, and so it will ever be. Mercy, forbearance, entreaty, persuasion, are tried first the light of reason, the warnings of experience, the monitions of Providence are given to avert the impending blow. Truth and virtue, justice and freedom, are inscribed upon the banners beneath which the God of History would lead the nations to the millennial day.

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MY MOTHER.

BELLE BUSH.

My Mother's a beautiful spirit, and her home is the Holy Evangel's;
There she feels neither sorrow nor pain, and treads not the path of the

weary.
Years ago, in the bud of my being, I knew her a radiant mortal,
But the house of her soul decayed, and she fled from the crumbling mansion,
And over the sea of eternity, biidged by the hands of angels,

Uniting the links of belief with the golden chain of repentance,
She passed, with the torch of prayer, to the opposite shore in safety,
When, crowned with the garlands of love, she mounted the steps of the city,
And the angels of Mercy and Truth, keeping watch at the heavenly portals,
Beheld her approach from afar, and flung open the pearly partitions ;
With song and loud hallelujahs they welcomed the earth-ransomed stranger,
And guided her steps, till she stood on the brink of the Life-giving

fountain,
Where, tasting its Lethean waters, all the joys of the world were forgotten,
Save the beautiful bloom of the soul- the love in the heart of the mother.
This, the light of her life upon earth, now budded and blossomed in heaven,
Stately and fair it towered, and the hue of its leaves was immortal.
Strong tendrils grew out from each bough, and twined round the chords of

her spirit. While the zephyrs of Paradise played and toyed with the delicate branches, Till each leaf like a harp-string swayed, and murmured in strains Æolian, And oft with their musical numbers reminded the wondering mother of the flowers she had left in the desert, --her weary and sorrowing

children. in their half-open leaflets she reads the pledge of her glorious mission, and rejoiced that her love should gather those earthly buds to her bosom. the angels beheld her in gladness rise up on those radiant pinions 17hich float on the air like a sunbeam, and rival the dove in their fleetness.

wâ, my mother's a beautiful spirit, and her home is the holy Evangel's; Jlyt she comes on her soft-floating pinions to look for her earth-bound

children. S:18 gomes, and the hearts that were weary no longer remember their

sorrow

In iheir joy that the lost is returned, our beloved and radiant mother!
Shu comes and our spirits rejoice, for we know she's our guardian angel,
O’ex'our journey in life keeping watch, and giving us gentle caresses.
Sho comes, she comes with the light when it opens the gates of the morning,
And her voice is our music by night, of perils and storms giving warning.
Her robes are of delicate pink,-sweet emblem of holy affection,-
And twined o'er her radient brow are the amaranth-blossoms of heaven.
She smiles, and the light of her smiles bringeth joy in our seasons of

darkness;
She whispers, and soft are the zephyrs that echo her musical numbers,
As they waft o'er the chords of our being her thrilling and fervent emotions.
We listen to her in our sorrow, and yield to each gentle impression,

Till pleasant to us is the path leading down to the rushing river;
O’er the swift-rolling current of death we shall pass to the homes of the

spirits,
And, waiting beside the still waters, our mother will be there to greet us ;
With songs she will welcome our coming, and fold us to rest on her bosom,
And teach us, like lisping children, to murmur the language of heaven!

Oh, my mother's a beautiful spirit, and her home is the holy Evangel's ;
But she comes on the pinions of love to watch her sorrowing children.
She comes, and the shadows depart, as we thrill to her gentle caresses.
Our Father in Heaven, we bless Thee, that our mother's our Guardian

Angel!

XCI.

WAITING BY THE GATE.

WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

Beside a massive gateway built up in years gone by,
Upon whose tops the clouds in eternal shadows lie,
While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood and lea,
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.

The tree-tops faintly rustle-beneath the breeze's flight
A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night,
I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant more,
And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er.

Behold the portals open, and o’er the threshold now,
There steps a weary one with a pale and furrowed brow;
His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought;
He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not.

In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour
Of human strength and action, man's courage and his power.
I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the golden day,
And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throws
A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes ;
A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair,
Moves mournfully away from amidst the young and fair.

Oh glory of our race that so suddenly decays!
Oh crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze!
Oh breath of summer flowers that on the restless air

Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies we know not where !

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn;
But still the sun shines round me; the evening birds sing on,
And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient gate,
In this soft, evening twilight, I calmly stand and wait.

Once more the gates are opened; an infant group goes out,
The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout.
Oh frail, frail tree of Life, that upon the greensward strows
Its fair, young buds unopened, with every wind that blows!

So came from every region, so enter, side by side,
The strong and faint of spirit, the meek, and men of pride.
Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillows gray,
And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way.

And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear,
And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing near,
As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye
Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.

I mark the joy, the terror; yet these, within my heart,
Can neither make the dread nor the longing to depart;
And in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea,
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.

XCII.

THY WILL BE DONE.

J. G. WHITTIER.

We see not, know not; all our way
Is night, — with Thee alone is day:
From out the torrent's troubled drift,
Above the storm our prayers we lift,

Thy will be done!

The flesh may fail, the heart may faint,
But who are we to make complaint,
Or dare to plead, in times like these,
The weakness of our love of ease ?

Thy will be done!

We take with solemn thankfulness

Our burden up, nor ask it less,
And count it joy that even we
May suffer, serve, or wait for Thee,

Whose will be done!

Though dim as yet in tint and line,
We trace Thy picture's wise design,
And thank Thee that our age supplies
Its dark relief of sacrifice.

Thy will be done!

And if, in our unworthiness,
Thy sacrificial wine we press,
If from Thy ordeal's heated bars
Our feet are seamed with crimson scars,

Thy will be done!

If, for the age to come, this hour
Of trial hath vicarious power,
And, blest by Thee, our present pain
Be Liberty's eternal gain,

Thy will be done!

Strike, Thou, the Master, we Thy keys,
The anthem of the destinies :
The minor of Thy loftier strain,
Our hearts shall breathe the old refrain,

Thy will be done!

XCIII.

TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW

GERALD MASSEY.

High hopes that burned like stars sublime,

Go down the heavens of Freedom;

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