God knows best; he has somebody's love; Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above, Night and morn on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away Looking so handsome, brave and grand; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, Somebody clung to his parting hand. Somebody's watching and waiting for him— Yearning to hold him again to her heart; And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, And the smiling childlike lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead, Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; Carve on the wooden slab at his headSomebody's Darling slumbers here!' THE MOTHER'S DREAM.-W. Barnes. I'D a dream to-night Makes me still to weep: Of my little lad, Gone to leave me sad, Aye, the child I had, As in heaven high, I my child did seek, With a lamp alight; Then, a little sad, Came my child in turn, Oh! it did not burn; He, to clear my doubt, Said, half turned about, 'Your tears put it out; Mother, never mourn.' FAREWELL. I NEVER cast a flower away, I never look'd a last adieu To things familiar, but my heart I never spoke the word 'Farewell' When it shall never more be spoken. SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE.-Longfellow. LABOUR with what zeal we will, By the bedside, on the stair, Waits, and will not go away; Each to-day is heavier made; Till at length the burden seems Greater than our strength can bear; Heavy as the weight of dreams, Pressing on us everywhere. And we stand from day to day, On their shoulders held the sky. THE BURIAL OF MOSES.—Mrs. C. F. Alexander. By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab For the angels of God upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there. That was the grandest funeral Comes back when night is done, Noiselessly as the spring time Her crown of verdure weaves, So without sound of music, Or voice of them that wept, Perchance the bald old eagle, On grey Beth-Peor's height, Looked on the wondrous sight; Still shuns that hallow'd spot, For beast and bird have seen and heard But when the warrior dieth, His comrades in the war, With arms reversed and muffled drum, They show the banners taken, They tell his battles won, And after him lead his masterless steed, While peals the minute gun. Amid the noblest of the land, In the great minster transept, And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings This was the truest warrior, This the most gifted poet That ever breath'd a word; On the deathless page, truths half so sage And had he not high honour,— To lie in state, while angels wait With stars for tapers tall, And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes, Over his bier to wave, And God's own hand in that lonely land To lay him in the grave? In that strange grave without a name, Shall break again, O wondrous thought! And stand with glory wrapt around, And speak of the strife, that won our life, O lonely grave in Moab's land! He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep A FAREWELL.-Tennyson. FLOW down, cold rivulet, to the sea, No more by thee my steps shall be, Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, But here will sigh thine alder tree, A thousand suns will stream on thee, THE SEA.-Barry Cornwall. THE Sea! the Sea! the open Sea! It runneth the earth's wide regions round; I'm on the Sea! I'm on the Sea! I am where I would ever be ; With the blue above and the blue below And silence wheresoe'er I go; |