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THE WINGED WORSHIPERS.
JAY, guiltless pair,
from the fields of heaven? Ye have no need of prayer,
Ye have no sins to be forgiven.
Why perch ye here,
Can your pure spirits fear
Ye never knew
Penance is not for you,
To you 'tis given
Beneath the arch of heaven
Then spread each wing,
And join the choirs that sing
blue dome not reared with hands.
Or, if ye stay,
Teach me the airy way,
Above the crowd,
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud,
'Twere heaven indeed, Through fields of trackless light to soar,
On nature's charms to feed, And nature's own great God adore.
THE ISLE OF THE LONG AGO.
BENJ. F. TAYLOR.
[By permission of S. C. Griggs & Co.)
As it runs through the realm of tears,
As it blends with the ocean of years.
How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,
,--so they come and they go, On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,
As it glides in the shadow and sheen.
There's a magical Isle up the river Time,
Where the softest of airs are playing; There's a cloidless sky and a tropical clime, And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,
And the Junes with the roses are straying.
And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago,
And we bury our treasures there;
There are trinkets and tresses of hair;
There are fragments of song that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer; There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings; There are broken vows and pieces of rings,
And the garments that she used to wear.
There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore
By the Mirage is lifted in air, And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,
When the wind down the river is fair.
O remember'd for aye, be the blessed Isle,
All the day of our life until night;
May that “Greenwood ” of soul be in sight!
THERE COMES A TIME.
There comes a time, or soon or late,
When every word unkindly spoken, Returns with all the force of fate,
To bear reproof from spirits broken, Who slumber in that tranquil rest, Which waking cares no more molest.
Oh! were the wealth of words our own,
We freely would the treasures yield,
If lips in endless silence sealed,
When anger arms the thoughtless tongue,
To wound the feelings of a friend, Oh! think ere yet his heart be wrung,
In what remorse thy wrath may end; Withhold to-day the words of hate, To-morrow it may be too late.