Upon the sultry, fetid air
Echo the shrieks of dark despair,
The orphan's plaintive moan;
In searching o'er that ghastly place
She recognised her father's face
And heard his parting groan.

Listen the widow's heart is rent-
Behold that head in anguish bent,
And hear her stricken tone;
"Speak once again, Friend of my heart,
And then! oh then! thou mayst depart,
Speak but once more my own!"

Oh! desolate is the peasant's cot,
And sad and mournful is the spot
That used to ring with glee;

Oh war! how terrible thou art,
How dire and dreadful is thy dart,
Wherever it may flee.

Great God of peace, do Thou be nigh,
And bend o'er earth Thy pitying eye;
Behold the widow's woe;

Look on her lonely, sacred grief,
Do Thou in mercy send relief,
And ease her weary blow.

Restrain this war; give peace, we pray,
All human strife take Thou away;
Let all once more unite

In friendship's sacred fold to dwell,
Together let their praises swell

To Thy great throne of light.

EMMA MOODY.

SADDENED MEMORIES.

WHO that a watcher doth remain
Beside a couch of mortal pain,
Deems he can ever smile again!

Or who that weeps beside a bier
Counts he has any more to fear
From the world's flatteries, false and leer?

And yet anon and he must start

At the light toys in which his heart
Can now already claim its part.

O hearts of ours so weak and poor,
That nothing there can long endure ;
And so their hurts find shameful cure.

While every sadder, wiser thought,
Each holier aim which sorrow brought,
Fades quite away and comes to nought.

O Thou who dost our weakness know,
Watch for us, that the strong hours so
Not wean us from our wholesome woe.

Grant Thou that we may long retain
The wholesome memories of pain,
Nor wish to loose them soon again.

ARCHBISHOP TRENCH.

THE LOST DAY.

LOST! lost! lost!

A gem of countless price, Cut from the living rock, And graved in paradise : Set round with three times eight Large diamonds clear and bright, And each with sixty smaller ones, All changeful as the light.

Lost where the thoughtless throng
In fashion's mazes wind,
Where trilleth folly's song,
Leaving a sting behind.
Yet to my hand 'twas given,
A golden harp to buy,

Such as the white-robed choir attune
To deathless minstrelsy.

For till these heart-strings sever, I know that heaven's entrusted gift Is reft away for ever.

But when the sea and land,

Like burning scroll have fled,

I'll see it in His hand

Who judgeth quick and dead;

And when of scathe and loss
That man can ne'er repair,
The dread enquiry meets my soul,
What shall it answer there?

FIGHT ON.

MRS SIGOURNEY.

FIGHT on fight on! 'tis morning time,
Your arms are strong-your nerves are strung ;
Quit you like men in life's young prime;
For loftier cause than verse has sung
Demands your steadfast, best endeavour-
God's and your soul's-fight on-fight ever!
Fight on! fight on! temptation's glare
Pours hotly down from mid-life's sky,
In triple force of scoff, sneer, snare;
Yet faint not, he who yields must die.
God's strength that triple force can sever.
Your cause is His-fight on-fight ever!
Fight on the shadows from the west
Fall lengthening ;-shrink not from the strife;
Still onward lies the promised rest,

And yours is conflict bound for life;
Only to cease beyond the river,

The war-cry still-" Fight on! fight ever!"
Fight on fight on! tis nearly dark,—
The foe's choice hour your strength to prove ;
Hold out and you shall reach that mark,
Nor death, nor demon's power can move;
For victor's crown that fadeth never,
Brother once more-fight on! fight ever!
ARCHDEACON ROWAN,

COMMUNION.

MORN is the time to act ;-noon to endure,
But oh! if thou would'st keep thy spirit pure,
Turn from the weaker path by worldlings trod,
Go forth at eventide to walk with God.

THE ANGEL'S SONG.

IT came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth
To touch their harps of gold :
"Peace to the earth, goodwill to men,
From heaven's all-gracious King!"-
The world in solemn stillness lay
To hear the angels sing.

Still through the cloven skies they come
With peaceful wings unfurled;
And still their heavenly music floats
O'er all the weary world:
Above its sad and lowly plains

They bend on heavenly wing,
And ever o'er its Babel sounds
The blessed angels sing.

Yet with the woes of sin and strife
The world has suffered long;
Beneath the angel strain have rolled

Two thousand years of wrong;