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For she was rich, and gave up
And laboured in her lands.
Their outbound sails have sped,
Now earns her daily bread.
which never cease,
her face. H. W. LONGFELLOW.
The Gospel of Peace.
peace were there,
Go seek elsewhere."
Surely, thought I,
I will search out the matter.
Did break and scatter.
Then went I to a garden, and did spy
A gallant flower,
“ Peace at the root must dwell.”
What showed so well.
Whom when for peace
“ There was a prince of old
Of flock and fold.
His life from foes,
twelve stalks of wheat: Which many wond'ring at got some of those
To plant and set.
Through all the earth;
That virtues lie therein;
By flight of sin.
And grows for you:
Is only there." GEORGE HERBERT.
The Path of Sorrow.
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown;
But ills of every shape and every name, Transformed to blessings, miss their cruel aim ; And every moment's calm that soothes the breast, Is given in earnest of eternal rest.
The Soul has gone to Him who gives
'TIS evening's hush: the first faint shades are
creeping Thro’ the still room, and o'er the curtained bed, Where lies a weary one, all calmly sleeping,
Touched with the twilight of the land of dread. Death's cold gray shadow o'er her features falling, Marks her
the threshold of the tomb; Yet from within no sight nor sound appalling,
Comes o'er her spirit with a thought of gloom. See-on her pallid lip bright smiles are wreathing,
While from the tranquil gladness of her breast, Sweet holy words in gentlest tones are breathing :
“Come unto me and I will give you rest.” Night gathers round—chill, moonless, yet with
tender, Mild, radiant stars, like countless angel-eyes, Bending serenely from their homes of splendor,
Above the couch where that meek dreamer lies.
The hours wear on: the shaded lamp burns
dimmer, And ebbs that sleeper's breath as wanes the
night, And still with looks of love those soft stars
glimmer, Along their pathways of unchanging light. She slumbers still—and the pale, wasted fingers,
Are gently raised, as if she dreamed of prayer; And on that lip so wan the same smile lingers, And still those trustful words are trembling
there. The night is done: the cold and solemn dawning
With stately tread goes up the eastern sky; But vain its power, and vain the pomp of morning,
To lift the darkness from that dying eye. Yet Heaven's full joy is on that spirit beaming
The soul has found its higher, happier birth, And brighter shapes flit thro’ its blessed dreaming
Than ever gather round the sleep of earth. The sun is high, but from those pale lips parted, No more those words float on the languid
breath, Yet still the expression of the happy-hearted
Hastriumphedo'erthemournfulshades of death. Thro’ the hushed room the midday ray has wended
Its glowing pinion to a pulseless breast : The gentle sleeper's mortal dreams are ended The soul has gone to Him who gives it rest.
LUELLA J. B. CASE.