IN MEMORIAM.

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IN MEMORIAM.

I SAW two flowers at morning:

The one was a full-blown rose;
And it lay at rest on a matron's breast,
Like a gleam from the sunset close.

The other an opening rose-bud,

As white as the sea-washed pearl;

And it graced, amid masses of dark-brown hair,
The head of a beautiful girl.

And the flowers were types of these lovely ones,
That mother and daughter fair,
Sending abroad, o'er life's arid road,
Sweet perfume everywhere.

I saw two graves at even,

Mid the fading light of day;

And there, at the head of the cherished dead,

The morning flowerets lay.

And I cried, "O gentle flowers,

Are those beautiful ones beneath?

Can aught so bright and so lovely
Feel the withering grasp of Death?"
"Not so, not so," said the flowers;
"'Tis but dust beneath this sod;
For the holy souls on the sunset ray
Went up to the bosom of God!"

H. COPPEE.

GOD sent His Singers upon earth

With songs of sadness and of mirth,

That they might touch the hearts of men

And bring them back to heaven again.

THE SINGERS.

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Through groves he wandered, and by streams,
Playing the music of our dreams.

The second, with a bearded face,
Stood singing in the market-place,
And stirred with accents deep and loud
The hearts of all the listening crowd.

A gray old man, the third and last,
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast,
While the majestic organ rolled
Contrition from its mouths of gold.

And those who heard the Singers three
Disputed which the best might be;
For still their music seemed to start
Discordant echoes in each heart.

But the great Master said, "I see
No best in kind, but in degree;

I gave a various gift to each,

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach.

"These are the three great chords of might;

And he whose ear is tuned aright

Will hear no discord in the three,
But the most perfect harmony."

LONGFELLOW.

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar

Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,
For gift or grace, surpassing this:-
"He giveth His beloved sleep!"

THE SLEEP.

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart, to be unmoved,
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,
The monarch's crown, to light the brows?—
"He giveth His beloved sleep."

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith all undisproved,

A little dust to overweep,

And bitter memories to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake. "He giveth His beloved sleep."

"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep,

But never doleful dream again

Shall break the happy slumber, when "He giveth His beloved sleep."

O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices!
O delved gold, the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And "giveth His beloved sleep."

His dews drop mutely on the hill;
His cloud above it saileth still,

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