My brave young boys take heed I pray,

And walk not in this black crime's path, Walk on that high and grand straight way,

Which shuns the place of fire and wrath. Ye bright hopes of the yet to come,

With truth now let your feet be shod, Strive for that blest and dear good home,

In the grand realms of our God.

DRIFTING.

CALISTA L. GRANT.

I stand by the river, so peacefully shining,

Beyond is the city I'm yearning to see;

I wait for the summons that's coming to me!
Hold me closer, my darling, and feel no repining,
We know that the pure love our hearts now entwining,

Reaching over the river, immortal will be!

Thou fair, golden city, soon, soon, I shall find me

Thy clear jasper walls and thy pearl gates within,

Where never can enter earth's bondage and sin! All the world's care and pain I shall leave far behind me, No more can my prison chains trammel and bind me,

My crown of rejoicing at last I shall win.

For I'm dying, you say, though it seems more like dreaming,

So slowly the life-tide is ebbing away,

So slowly is fading life's lingering ray!
So long all of earth hath been idle seeming,
So long, oh, so long, have I watched for the gleaming

Of the pure gates that open to Heaven's perfect day.

Through the vine-curtained window the sunlight is sifting,

On the snow of the mountains the purple mist lies;

But they fade from my view, as the death-shadows rise, And out from the earth-life my lone bark is drifting, Through the mist and the shadow, but angels are lifting,

With invisible fingers, the gates of the skies !

A FAREWELL

Farewell! since never more for thee

The sun comes up our eastern skies,
Less bright henceforth shall sunshine be

To some fond hearts and saddened eyes.

There are who for thy last, long sleep

Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore,
Shall
weep

because thou canst not weep,
And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er.

Sad thrift of love! the loving breast

On which the aching head was thrown,
Gave up the weary head to rest,

But kept the aching for its own.

med

FAITH.

FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.

BETTER trust all and be deceived,
And weep that trust and that deceiving,
Than doubt one heart that if believed
Had blessed one's life with true believing.

0, in this mocking world too fast
The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth;
Better be cheated to the last
Than lose the blessed hope of truth.

Our sweetest and most bitter hours are thine;

Thou by the weary frame art fondly pressed, Which, grateful, blesses its most welcome shrine,

While curses thee, pale sickness' sad unrest. 'Tis here the blushing bride receives her !ord;

'Tis here the mother first beholds her child; 'Tis here death snaps affection's fondest cord,

And changes sunny bliss to anguish wild; 'Tis here the good man, pondering on his fate,

Beholds that bed which this doth typefy, Made by the sexton, his frail form's estate,

Where, in long slumber, it shall dreamless lie; And he exults, feeling in thạt dark sod His robe alone will lie—the rest with God!