O, remember'd for aye be the blessèd Isle,
All the day of our life until night;

When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,
May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight!

THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BEAD.

C. B. SOUTHEY.

TREAD softly; bow the head,

In reverent silence bow;
No passing-bell doth toll,
Yet an immortal soul
Is passing now.

Stranger, however great,

With lowly reverence bow:
There's one in that poor shed,
One by that paltry bed,

Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,

Lo! Death does keep his state:

Enter,

Enter,

no crowds attend;

no guards defend

This palace-gate.

That pavement, damp and cold,
No smiling courtiers tread;
One silent woman stands,
Lifting with meagre hands
A dying head.

No mingling voices sound,-
An infant wail alone;

A sob suppress'd, — again

That short, deep gasp, and then
The parting groan.

O change! O wondrous change!
Burst are the prison-bars;

This moment there, so low,

So agonized, and now

Beyond the stars!

LIE lightly on our Willie, earth!
Press gently on his side:

Eight years he grew beside our hearth,
Then laid him down and died.

And let his sleep be peaceful there,
Whose life was wrong'd with pain,
For sweet his spirit was and fair,
His talk like gentle rain.

And he was brave of soul and true,
His thoughts they knew no guile ;
Nor ever fell more soft the dew
Than did his loving smile.

Patient he was, from murmur free,
Though hard his childish lot;
"Twould grieve you much his pangs to see,
And yet he murmur'd not.

For on his trusting spirit fell

The peace that passes thinking;
He knew the love of Christ to tell,
The love that worketh all things well,
And holds the meek from sinking.

"Thy rod and staff my comfort are,"
Thus sang our precious boy:

"Christ leads me forth with tender care, To freshest streams He guides my feet, At His own table bids me eat,

Christ lights my path with joy.

“What though the vale be dark and drear,”

So ran our Willie's song,

"I'll pass it still, and feel no fear, For Christ will make me strong."

We miss him here, we miss him there;
Nought breaks his deep reposing:
His voice no more in song or prayer,
No more his talk by day we share,
Nor kiss when day is closing.

We call,

he answers not the while;

His thoughts we cannot measure; "This home is best," he seems to smile, Our lost yet living treasure.

FORTY YEARS AGO.

I'VE wander'd to the village, Tom,
I've sat beneath the tree,
Upon the school-house play-ground,
That shelter'd you and me;

But none were left to greet me, Tom,
And few were left to know,
Who play'd with us upon that green
Just forty years ago.

The grass was just as green, Tom,
Barefooted boys at play

Were sporting, just as we did then,
With spirits just as gay:

But the master sleeps upon the hill,
Which, coated o'er with snow,

Afforded us a sliding-place

Some forty years ago.

The old school-house is alter'd some,
The benches are replaced

By new ones, very like the same
Our jack-knives had defaced;

But the same old bricks are in the wall,
And the bell swings to and fro,
It's music just the same, dear Tom,
'Twas forty years ago.

The boys were playing some old game

Beneath that same old tree;

I do forget the name just now,

You've play'd the same with me

On that same spot; 'twas play'd with knives,
By throwing so and so;

The loser had a task to do
There forty years ago.

The river's running just as still;

The willows on its side

Are larger than they were, Tom;
The stream appears less wide;
But the grape-vine swing is miss'd now,
Where once we play'd the beau,

And swung our sweethearts-pretty girls

Just forty years ago.

The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill,

Close by the spreading beech, Is very low; 'twas once so high

That we could scarcely reach;
And kneeling down to take a drink,
Dear Tom, I started so,

To think how very much I've changed
Since forty years ago.

Near by that spring, upon an elm,

You know, I cut your name;

Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom,
And you did mine the same.

Some heartless wretch has peel'd the bark; 'Twas dying sure, but slow,

Just as she died whose name you cut

There forty years ago.

My lids have long been dry, Tom,
But tears came in my eyes;
I thought of her I loved so well,
Those early broken ties.

I visited the old church-yard,

And took some flowers to strow
Upon the graves of those we loved
Just forty years ago.

Some are in the church-yard laid,
Some sleep beneath the sea;
But none are left of our old class

Excepting you and me.

And when our time shall come, Tom,
And we are call'd to go,

I hope we'll meet with those we loved
Some forty years ago.

NEARER HOME.

PHOEBE CARY.

ONE Sweetly solemn thought

Comes to me o'er and o'er:

I'm nearer my home to-day

Than I ever have been before;

Nearer my Father's house,

Where the many mansions be;