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GEMS OF POETRY.

By Chebar's brook ye pass'd, such radiance wearing
As mortal vision might but ill endure;
Along the stream the living chariot bearing,
With its high crystal arch, intensely pure!
And the dread rushing of your wings that hour,
Was like the noise of waters in their ne

Dowon

finest wheel on the market."-Philadelphia Nort American.

The Common Impulse.-" Of course," said th importer, perfection is beyond the bounds o human expectation." "To be sure," replied th statesman. "It is unreasonable to look for Wholly tariff that will be absolutely flawless." "And so long as there must b unreasonable." defects"Yes." "I thought that I migh as well do what I could to have them benefit m instead of somebody else."-Washington Star.

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gned by over a thousand lawyers, asking hat the judicial nominations to be made his spring be made by party conventions, nd not by party committees or "machines." hey state that they are not opposed to any greement being made by the two parties s to the division of the Judgeships, but what hey desire is that the Judges allotted to ach party shall be nominated in convention, o that the selection of candidates may not be taken away from the people." It is atural that the lawyers should have their iews regarding as important a subject as he selection of the local judiciary, and it is proper that they should express these views. The party managers will no doubt give them lue consideration.

Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining,

Yields up life's treasures unto Him who gave?
When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning,
Lead on the march of death, serenely brave?
Dreams!--but a deeper thought our souls may fill—
One, one is near--a spirit holier still!

AFTER THE STORM.

MRS. ANNIE HOWE (BISHOP) THOMSON.

A night without of wind and rain,
And a night in my soul of grief and pain.

A night without of darkness and gloom, And a night in my soul because of a tomb.

A lonely tomb on the hillside made,
Under the oak tree's sheltering shade.

A lowly grave where a loved one lies,
With the shadow of death on brow and eyes;

And a pallor that only comes when life
Is ended, with all of mortal strife.

With folded hands and a quiet breast:-
Dear hands that never before knew rest!-

And close sealed lips that never again,
Will make the way of life so plain

To faltering feet; nor will I prove
The sweetness of all their words of love.

What wonder if anguish fills my breast, That sadden my days and break my rest! What wonder if life and its pleasures seem But a fitful glow, and a fading dream!—

That I long in the same low bed to lie,
Under this fair, sweet summer's sky.

Sleeping my last, long, dreamless sleep,
From which I shall never awake to weep!

But, the night will go and the morning beam, And the storm die out as fading dream;

And the blue sky smile from its midnight pall, With the beautiful sunshine over all :

So, out of my heart this weary pain,
With its night of grief and its storm and rain,

Will one day go, when the morn shall rise,
Over the hills of paradise :

And my loved and lost shall walk with me,
Under the shade of life's fair tree,

With a beaming eye and a radiant brow, Though silent and cold, and moldering now.

Then heart be still, and patient wait!
For soon will open each pearly gate--

Will open to you on realms of bliss,
And closing shut out the griefs of this.

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But when Spring comes, up they start;
Stretch their hands a minute-

"Time to do our Summer's work:

Violets, you begin it!"

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A CHRISTMAS HYMN.

[The following is one of the most beautiful poems ever written on the subject. The author is supposed to have been Alfred Domett.]

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T was the calm and silent night!

Seven hundred years and fifty-three
Had Rome been growing up to might,

And now was queen of land and sea!
No sound was heard of clashing wars;

Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain;
Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars,

Held undisturbed their ancient reign,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago!

'Twas in the calm and silent night!-
The senator of haughty Rome
Impatient urged his chariot's flight,

From lordly revel rolling home!
Triumphal arches gleaming swell

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway;

What recked the Roman what befell

A paltry province far away,

In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago!

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