Of forests green and deep, Of valleys hushed in sleep, And lakes most peaceful? 'T is the land of Very far off its marble cities seem- Its woods, unruffled by the wild wind's roar; Howl on its very verge. One moment-and we breathe within the They whom we loved and lost so long ago Dwell in those cities, far from mortal wo Haunt those fresh woodlands, whence sweet carolings soar. Eternal peace have they; God wipes their tears away: They drink that river of life which flows from Thither we hasten through these regions dim, But, lo, the wide wings of the Seraphim Shine in the sunset! On that joyous shore The life of long ago: The sorrow-burdened past shall fade for Evermore. MORTIMER COLLINS. Rain on the Roof. WHEN the humid shadows hover Over all the starry spheres, What a bliss to press the pillow Of the soft rain overhead! Every tinkle on the shingles And a thousand recollections Weave their air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patter Of the rain upon the roof. Now in memory comes my mother, Ere she left them till the dawn: As I list to this refrain Then my little seraph sister, With her wings and waving hair, And her star-eyed cherub brotherA serene angelic pair!— Glide around my wakeful pillow, With their praise or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmur Of the soft rain on the roof. And another comes, to thrill me That her heart was all untrue : I remember but to love her With a passion kin to pain, And my heart's quick pulses vibrate Art hath naught of tone or cadence That subdued, subduing strain Tillie Winkie. COATES KINNEY, WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town, "Are the weans in their bed?-for it 's now ten o'clock." Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben? The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue! glow'rin' like the moon, Rumblin' tumblin' roun' about, crowin' like a cock, Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean 's in a creel! Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums,-- Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean, A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane, The Old Canoe. WHERE the rocks are gray and the shore is steep, Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank, And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank, Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through,— There lies at its moorings the old canoe. The useless paddles are idly dropped, Like a sea-bird's wings that the storm had lopped, Like the folded hands when the work is done; While busily back and forth between The stern, half sunk in the slimy wave, And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay, Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower, While many a blossom of loveliest hue The currentless waters are dead and still, It floats the length of the rusty chain, Like the weary march of the hands of time, Oh, many a time, with a careless hand, I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand, And paddled it down where the stream runs quick, To see that the faces and boats were two, But now, as I lean o'er the crumbling side, But I love to think of the hours that sped As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed, ANONYMOUS. Only Waiting. A very old man in an alms-house was asked what he was doing now. He replied, "Only waiting." ONLY waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown; Only waiting till the glimmer Of the day's last beam is flown; Till the night of earth is faded From the heart once full of day; Only waiting till the reapers Have the last sheaf gathered home; |