The toiling, suffering sons of earth
Are drowned in sweetest slumber.

"The student rests his weary brain,
And waits the fresher morrow ;
I ease the patient of his pain,
The mourner of his sorrow.

"I bar the gates where cares abide,
And open Pleasure's portals
To visioned joys; thus, far and wide,
I earn the praise of mortals.”

"Alas!" replied the other, "mine
Is not a task so grateful;
Howe'er to mercy I incline,

To mortals I am hateful.

"They call me 'Kill-joy,' every one,

And speak in sharp detraction

Of all I do; yet have I done

Full many a kindly action."

"True!" answered Sleep, "but all the while

Thine office is berated,

'T is only by the weak and vile

That thou art feared and hated.

"And though thy work on earth has given To all a shade of sadness;

Consider every saint in heaven

Remembers thee with gladness!''

William E. Channing.

1818.

SLEEPY HOLLOW.

No abbey's gloom, nor dark cathedral stoops,
No winding torches paint the midnight air ;
Here the green pines delight, the aspen droops,
Along the modest pathways, and those fair
Pale asters of the season spread their plumes
Around this field, fit garden for our tombs.

And shalt thou pause to hear some funeral bell
Slow stealing o'er thy heart in this calm place,
Not with a throb of pain, a feverish knell,
But in its kind and supplicating grace,
It says, Go, pilgrim, on thy march, be more
Friend to the friendless than thou wast before;

Learn from the loved one's rest serenity;

To-morrow that soft bell for thee shall sound, And thou repose beneath the whispering tree, One tribute more to this submissive ground; Prison thy soul from malice, bar out pride, Nor these pale flowers nor this still field deride :

Rather to those ascents of being turn,

When a ne'er-setting sun illumes the year Eternal, and the incessant watch-fires burn Of unspent holiness and goodness clear,Forget man's littleness, deserve the best, God's mercy in thy thought and life confest.

barriet Winslow Sewall.

1819-1889.

WHY THUS LONGING?

Why thus longing, thus forever sighing,
For the far-off, unattained, and dim,
While the beautiful, all round thee lying,
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn?

Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching,
All thy restless yearnings it would still;
Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching
Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill.

Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee

Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw; If no silken cord of love hath bound thee

To some little world through weal and woe;

If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten,
No fond voices answer to thine own;
If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten
By daily sympathy and gentle tone.

Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses,
Not by works that give thee world-renown,
Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses,

Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown.

Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely,
Every day a rich reward will give ;

Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only,
And truly loving, thou canst truly live.
Dost thou revel in the rosy morning,

When all nature hails the lord of light,
And his smile, nor low nor lofty scorning,
Gladdens hall and hovel, vale and height?

Other hands may grasp the field and forest,
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine;
But with fervent love if thou adorest,

Thou art wealthier,—all the world is thine.

Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest,
Sighing that they are not thine alone,

Not those fair fields, but thyself, thou lovest,
And their beauty and thy wealth are gone.

*

*

Unknown.

THE SACRIFICE OF THE WILL.

"Thy Will Be Done."

Laid on Thine altar, O my Lord divine,
Accept my gift this day, for Jesu's sake.
I have no jewels to adorn Thy shrine,

Nor any world-famed sacrifice to make;
But here I bring, within my trembling hand,
This will of mine—a thing that seemeth small.

And Thou alone, O Lord, canst understand

How, when I yield Thee this, I yield mine all. Hidden therein, Thy searching gaze can see

Struggles of passion-visions of delightAll that I have, or am, or fain would be,—

Deep loves, fond hopes, and longings infinite; It hath been wet with tears, and dimmed with sighs,

Clenched in my grasp till beauty hath it none ; Now from Thy footstool where it vanquished lies, The prayer ascendeth, "May Thy will be done.” Take it, O Father, ere my courage fail,

And merge it so in Thine own will, that e'en If in some desperate hour my cries prevail, And Thou give me my gift, it may have been So changed, so purified, so fair have grown,

So one with Thee, so filled with peace divine, I may not know or feel it as mine own

But gaining back my will, may find it Thine.

James Russell Lowell.
1819.

YUSSOUF.

A stranger came one night to Yussouf's tent, Saying "Behold one outcast and in dread, Against whose life the bow of power is bent, Who flies, and hath not where to lay his head;