GOD'S-ACRE. Can I call that home where I anchor yet, Can I call that home where my nest was set, Nay, but the port where my sailor went, And the land where my nestlings be: There is the home where my thoughts are sent, 247 Ah me! JEAN INGELOW. I God's-Acre. LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls It consecrates each grave within its walls, God's-Acre! Yes, that blessèd name imparts Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith that we shall rise again Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth. With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests grow! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Lovely stars are gleaming, As lovely eyes were gleaming, But there has been soul-sundering, For graves grow fat with plundering The gone, forever gone! We see great eagles soaring, On, forever on. As lofty minds were soaring, As sonorous voices roaring, And as sparkling wits were pouring On, forever on; DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. But pinions have been shedding, Everything is sundering, Every one is wondering, And this huge globe goes thundering But 'mid this weary sundering, I would that I were dreaming 249 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. Death's Final Conquest. THE glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armor against fate: Death lays his icy hand on kings. Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant with laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield, They tame but one another still; Early or late, They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, The garlands wither on your brow ; Then boast no more your mighty deeds; See where the victor victim bleeds! To the cold tomb, Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust. JAMES SHIRLEY. The Two Villages. OVER the river on the hill Lieth a village white and still; All around it the forest trees Of soaring hawk and screaming crow; Over the river under the hill GOD'S-ACRE. In that village on the hill Never is sound of smithy or mill; The houses are thatched with grass and flowers, Never a clock to tell the hours; The marble doors are always shut; You may not enter at hall or hut. In that village under the hill, ye all!" 251 ROSE TERRY COOKE. God's-Acre. PEACEABLE folk hid under the earth, I came to look in on your noiseless court, What it is holds me I cannot tell, |