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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 head

Somebody's Darling slumbers here!'

THE MOTHER'S DREAM.-W. Barnes.

I'd a dream to-night

As I fell asleep,
Oh! the touching sight

Makes me still to weep :
Of my little lad,

Gone to leave me sad,
Aye, the child I had,

But was not to keep.
As in heaven high,

I my child did seek,
There, in train, came by

Children fair and meek,
Each in lily white,

With a lamp alight ;
Each was clear to sight,

But they did not speak.
Then, a little sad,

Came my child in turn,
But the lamp he had,

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,

The gift of one who cared for me ;
A little flower-a faded flower,

But it was done reluctantly.
I never look'd a last adieu

To things familiar, but my heart
Shrank from a feeling, almost pain,

E’en from their lifelessness to part.
I never spoke the word “Farewell'

But with an utterance faint and broken ;
An earth-sick yearning for the time

When it shall never more be spoken.

SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE.-- Long fellow.

LABOUR with what zeal we will,

Something still remains undone,
Something uncompleted still

Waits the rising or the sun.
By the bedside, on the stair,

At the threshold, near the gates,
With its menace or its prayer,

Like a mendicant it waits ;
Waits, and will not go away;

Waits, and will not be gainsaid ;
By the cares of yesterday

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,

Like the dwarfs of times gone by,
Who, as Northern legends say,

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

There lies a lonely grave.
And no man knows that sepulchre,

And no man saw it e'er,
For the angels of God upturned the sod,

And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral

That ever pass'd on earth ;
But no man heard the trampling,

Or saw the train go forth-
Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes back when night is done,
And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek

Grows into the great sun.
Noiselessly as the spring time

Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills

Open their thousand leaves ;
So without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept,
Silently down from the mountain's crown,

The great procession swept.
Perchance the bald old eagle,

On grey Beth-Peor's height,
Out of his lonely eyrie,

Looked on the wondrous sight;
Perchance the lion stalking

Still shuns that hallow'd spot,
For beast and bird have seen and heard

That which man knoweth noi.

But when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war,
With arms reversed and muffled drum,

Follow his funeral car;
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,

We lay the sage to rest,
And give the bard an honour'd place,

With costly marble drest,
In the great minster transept,

Where lights like glories fall, And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings

Along the emblazon'd wall. This was the truest warrior,

That ever buckled sword, This the most gifted poet

That ever breath'd a word ;
And never earth's philosopher

Traced with his golden pen,
On the deathless page, truths half so sage

As he wrote down for men.
And had he not high honour,-

The hill-side for a pall,
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,

Whence his uncoffin'd clay
Shall break again, O wondrous thought!

Before the Judgment day,
And stand with glory wrapt around,

On the hills he never trod,
And speak of the strife, that won our life,

With the Incarnate Son of God.

O lonely grave in Moab's land !

O dark Beth-Peor's hill !
Speak to these curious hearts of ours,

And teach them to be still.
God hath His mysteries of grace,

Ways that we cannot tell ;
He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep

Of him He loved so well.

A FAREWELL.- Tennyson.
Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,

Thy tribute wave deliver :
No more by thee my steps shall be,

For ever and for ever.
Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,

A rivulet, then a river :
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be,

For ever and for ever.
But here will sigh thine alder tree,
And here thine

aspen shiver ;
And here by thee will hum the bee,

For ever and for ever.
A thousand suns will stream on thee,

A thousand moons will quiver;
But not by thee my steps shall be,

For ever and for ever.

THE SEA.-Barry Cornwall. THE Sea! the Sea! the open Sea ! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round; It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies ; Or like a cradled creature lies. 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;

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