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THE WINGED WORSHIPERS.
AY, guiltless pair,
What seek ye from the fields of heaven?' Ye have no need of prayer,
Ye have no sins to be forgiven.
Why perch ye here,
Where mortals to their Maker bend?
Ye never knew
The crimes for which we come to weep:
Blessed wanderers of the upper deep.
To you 'tis given
To wake sweet nature's untaught lays;
To chirp away a life of praise.
Then spread each wing,
Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,
yon blue dome not reared with hands.
Or, if ye stay,
To note the consecrated hour,
Above the crowd,
On upward wings could I but fly,
'Twere heaven indeed,
Through fields of trackless light to soar,
THE ISLE OF THE LONG AGO.
BENJ. F. TAYLOR.
[By permission of S. C. Griggs & Co.]
A WONDERFUL stream is the river Time,
How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow, And the summers like buds between,
And the year in the sheaf,-so they come and they go,
There's a magical Isle up the river Time,
And the Junes with the roses are straying.
And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago,
There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow;
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,
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 worlds our own,
When anger arms the thoughtless tongue,
In what remorse thy wrath may end;