III.

And yet amidst his little flock, still JESUS stands, serene, Unawed by suffering yet to be, unchanged by what hath

been;

Still beams the light of love undimmed in that benignant

eye,

Nor, save his own prophetic word, aught speaks him soon to die!

IV.

He pours within the votive cup the rich blood of the vine, And, "Drink ye all the hallowed draught" he cries, "This blood is mine!"

He breaks the bread: then clasps his hands and lifts his eyes in prayer,

"Receive ye this, and view by Faith my body symbolled there!

V.

"For like the wine that crowns this cup, my blood ́shall soon be shed;

My body broken on the cross, as now I break the bread: the crimson stream shall flow-for you the Hand Divine

For

you

Bares the red sword, although the heart that meets the

blow be mine!

VI.

"And oft your willing vows renew around the sacred board,

And break the bread and pour the wine in memory of your Lord :

To drink with me the grape's fresh blood to you shall yet

be given,

Fresh from the deathless Vine that blooms in blest abodes of Heaven!"

PARTED TWINS.

BY MRS. COCKLE.

And what should I do in Illyria?

My brother, he is in Elysium.

SHAKSPEARE.

I.

"BROTHER! thou art come from the land of the blest;
Thou art come from the place of thy spirit's rest!
Thou art come, thou art come, dear brother, for me;
O give me thy wings, and I too shall be free!"

II.

66

I have wandered indeed, an Angel-guest,

To earth-from the land of the spirit's rest;

I am come, dear brother, but not for thee,
For thine still is the chain of mortality."

III.

"How radiant thy hair, with its golden hue!

How bright beams thine eye of Heaven's own blue! And it looks as if never a tear-drop laid

Upon the soft fringe of its silken shade."

IV.

"Brother! I have been beyond that bright sky, Where no tear is shed-where is heard no sigh;— Know these belong to the mortal coil

To earth, and her children of care and toil."

V.

"Ah! why did thy lingering spirit not wait At the portal of heaven-at its golden gate?

I have wept-I have watched-I have waited for thee; Then give me thy wings-let me soar, and be free!"

VI.

"I may not, I may not;-far stronger the wing
On which thy freed spirit hereafter shall spring;-
On the pinion of Faith, it shall purified soar-
The ransomed of earth-and her pilgrim no more."

INSCRIPTION

ON A BURIAL-GROUND.

The resting-place of the Dead, waiting for the Living.'

BY W. M. HETHERINGTON, A. M.

I.

HERE rest the dead! silent and deep,
And dark and narrow is their home;
Here their long lonesome vigils keep,
Waiting but till the living come :
Morn dawns not in its beauty here,
No lustre noon-day suns can shed,
No star-beams through the dim night peer
the cheerless dead.

That wraps

II.

Art thou a chief of daring breast,

Of lofty brow, and kindling eye?

Is thine the flaming meteor-crest

That bursts through battle's lurid sky?
O warrior! doff thine eagle plume,
Resign thy war-steed, brand and spear
Disarmed, imprisoned in the tomb,

Thy comrades wait thee here.

III.

Art thou a king, a hero, one

At the dread bidding of whose word The grizzly War-Fiend buckles on

His panoply, and bares his sword?

Halt, mighty Conqueror! blench thy cheek, Quell the red terrors of thine

eye;

Here earth's proud Thunderers, silent, weak, To wait thy coming lie.

IV.

Art thou a man of loftiest mind,
Statesman, philosopher, or bard?
One whose great soul can only find
In native worth its high reward?
Oh! pluck the bright wreath from thy brow,
And leave it in the hall of fame;
Here dwell the glorious dead, each now

The shadow of a name.

V.

Art thou a youth of gentle breast?
One fond to roam by rippling streams,
With love's delicious woes opprest,

And haunted with fantastic dreams?
Shake the soft fetters from thy heart,
Dreamer! the partners of thy fate,
Struck now by no soft Cupid's dart,

Thy coming here await.