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We know when moons shall wane,

When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain

But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

"Great Luther left his fiery zeal
Within the hearts that truly feel
That loyalty to God will be
The fealty that makes men free.
No images where incense fell!"
Rang out old Martin Luther's bell.
'All hail, ye saints in heaven that dwell
Close by the cross!" exclaimed a bell;
"Lean o'er the battlements of bliss,
And deign to bless a world like this;
Let mortals kneel before this shrine-
Adore the water and the wine!
All hail, ye saints, the chorus swell!”
Chimed in the Roman Catholic bell.

Is it when Spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?

They have one season-all are ours to die!

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Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art around us in our peaceful home,

And the world calls us forth-and thou art there.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death!

“Ye workers who have toiled so well
To save the race!" said a sweet bell.
"With pledge and badge, and banner, come,
Each brave heart beating like a drum.
Be royal men of noble deeds,
For love is holier than creeds;
Drink from the well, the well, the well!"
In rapture rang the Temperance bell.

BURIED TO-DAY

DINAH MULOOB ORAIK.

Buried to-day:

When the soft green buds are bursting out,

And up on the south wind comes a shout Of village boys and girls at play In the mild spring evening gray.

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

MBS. F. HEMANS.

Taken away,

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set—but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death!

Sturdy of heart and stout of limb,

From eyes that drew half their right from him, And put low, low underneath the clay, In his spring-on this spring day.

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She comes from the past, and revisits my room:
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom;
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair;
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair!

me.

ST. JOHN THE AGED.

I'm growing very old. This weary head
That hath so often leaned on Jesus' breast,
In days long past that seem almost a dream,
Is bent and hoary with its weight of years.
These limbs that followed Him, my master, oft,
From Galilee to Judah; yea, that stood
Beneath the cross and trembled with His groans,
Refuse to bear me even through the streets
To preach unto my children. E'en my lips
Refuse to form the words my heart sends forth.
My ears are dull; they scarcely hear the sobs
Of my dear children gathered 'round my couch;
My eyes so dim, they cannot see their tears.
God lays His hand upon me,-yea, His hand,
And not His rod—the gentle hand that I
Felt, those three years, so oft pressed in mine,
In friendship such as passeth woman's love.

What say you, friends?
That this is Ephesus, and Christ has gone
Back to His kingdom? Ay, 'tis so, 'tis so !
I know it all and yet, just now, I seemed
To stand once more upon my native hills
And touch my Master! Oh! how oft I've seen
The touching of His garments bring back strength
To palsied limbs! I feel it has to mine.
Up! bear me once more to my church-once more!
There let me tell them of a Saviour's love;
For, by the sweetness of my Master's voice
Just now, I think He must be very near-
Coming, I trust, to break the veil which time

I
Has worn so thin that I can see beyond,
And watch His footsteps.

I'm old, so old! I cannot recollect
The faces of my friends, and I forget
The words and deeds that make up daily life;
But that dear face, and every word He spoke,
Grow more distinct as others fade

away, So that I live with Him and th' holy dead More than with living.

So, raise up my head.
How dark it is! I cannot seem to see
The faces of my flock. Is that the sea
That murmurs so, or is it weeping? Hush!
My little children! God so loved the world
He

gave His Son; so love ye one another;
Love God and man, Amen. Now bear me back.
My legacy into an angry world is this,
I feel my work is finished. Are the streets so full?
What call the folks my name? "The holy John ?"
Nay, write me rather, Jesus Christ's beloved,
And lover of my children

Some seventy years ago
I was a fisher by the sacred sea.
It was at sunset. How the tranquil tide
Bathed dreamily the pebbles! How the light
Crept up the distant hills, and in its wake
Soft purple showers wrapped the dewy fields!
And then He came and called me. Then I gazed
For the first time on that sweet face. Those eyes
From out of which, as from a window, shone
Divinity, looked on my inmost soul,
And lighted it forever: Then His words
Broke on the silence of my heart, and made
The whole world musical. Incarnate love
Took hold of me and claimed me for its own;
I followed in the twilight, holding fast
His mantle.

Lay me down
Once more upon my couch, and open wide
The eastern window. See! there comes a light
Like which broke upon my soul at eve,
When, in the dreary Isle of Patmos, Gabriel came
And touched me on the shoulder. See! it grows
As when we mounted toward the pearly gates.
I know the way! I trod it once before!
And hark! it is the song the ransomed sang
Of glory to the Lamb! How loud it sounds!
And that unwritten one! Methinks my soul
Can join it now. But who are these who crowd
The shining way? O joy, it is the eleven!
With Peter first, how eagerly he looks!
How bright the smiles beaming on James' face.
I am the last. Once more we are complete
To gather 'round the Paschal feast. My place
Is next my Master. O my Lord! my Lord!
How bright Thou art, and yet the very same
I loved in Galilee! 'Tis worth the hundred years
To feel this bliss! So lift me up, dear Lord,
Unto Thy bosom, full of perfect peace.
There shall I abide.

Oh! what holy walks we had,
Thro' harvest fields, and desolate, dreary wastes;
And oftentimes He leaned upon my arm,
Wearied and way-worn. I was young and strong,
And so upbore Him. Lord! now I am weak,
And old and feeble. Let me rest on Thee!
So, put thine arm around me. Closer still!
How strong Thou art! The twilight draws apace;
Come, let us leave these noisy streets and take
The path to Bethany; for Mary's smile
Awaits us at the gate, and Martha's hands
Have long prepared the cheerful evening meal.
Come, James, the Master waits, and Peter, see,
Has gone some steps before.

LASCA.

FRANK DESPREZ.

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I want free life and I want fresh air,
And I sigh for the canter after the cattle;
The crack of the whips like shots in a battle,
The medley of horns and hoofs and heads
That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads;
The green beneath and the blue above,
And dash and danger, and life and love.
And Lasca!
Lasca used to ride
On a mouse-grey mustang close to my side,
With blue serape and bright-belled spur;
I laughed with joy as I looked at her!
Little knew she of books or of creeds;
An Ave Maria sufficed her needs;
Little she cared save to be by my side,
To ride with me, and ever to ride,
From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide.
She was as bold as the billows that beat,
She was as wild as the breezes that blow;
From her little head to her little feet
She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro
By each gust of passion; a sapling pine,
That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff,
And wars with the wind when the weather is rough,
Is like this Lasca, this love of mine.
She would hunger that I might eat,
Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet;
But once when I made her jealous for fun,
At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done,
One Sunday, in San Antonio,
To a glorious girl on the Alamo,
She drew from her garter a dear little dagger,
And-sting of a wasp-it made me stagger!
An inch to the left, or an inch to the right,
And I shouldn't be maundering here to-night;
But she sobbed, and sobbing, so swiftly bound
Her torn reboso about the wound,
That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
Her eyes was brown, a deep, deep brown;
Her hair was darker than her eye;
And something in her smile and frown,
Curled crimson lip and instep high,
Showed that there ran in each blue vein,
Mixed with the milder Aztec strain,
The vigorous vintage of Old Spain.
She was alive in every limb
With feeling to the finger-tips;
And when the sun is like a fire
And sky one shining soft sapphire,
One does not drink in little sips.

Was that thunder? I grasped the cord
Of

my swift mustang without a word.
IS sprang to the saddle and she clung behind.
Away! on a hot chase down the wind!
But never was fox-hunt half so hard,
And never was steed so little spared,
For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we

fared In Texas, down on the Rio Grande. The mustang flew, and we urged him on; There was one chance left, and you have but one; Halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse; Crouch under his carcass and take your chance; And if the steers in their frantic course Don't batter you both to pieces at once, You may thank your stars; if not, good-bye To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh. And the open air, and the open sky, In Texas, down by the Rio Grande! The cattle gained on us, and just as I felt For my old six-shooter behind in my belt, Down came the mustang, and down came we, Clinging together, and what was the rest? A body that spread itself on my breast. Two arms that shielded my dizzy head, Two lips that hard on my lips were prest; Then came thunder in my ears, And over us surged the sea of steers, Blows that beat blood into my eyes, And when I could riseLasca was dead!

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I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,
And there in earth's arms I laid her to sleep;
And there she is lying, and no one knows,
And the summer shines and the winter snows.
For many a day the flowers have spread
A pall of petals over her head;
And the little gray hawks hangs aloft in the air,
And the sly coyote trots here and there;
And the black snake glides and glitters and slides
Into a rift in a cotton-wood tree;
And the buzzard sails on
And comes and is gone,
Stately and still like a ship at sea;
And I wonder why I do not care
For the things that are like things that were.
Does half my heart lie buried there
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?

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HANNAH JANE.

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D. B. LOCKE.

She isn't half so handsome as when, twenty years

agone, At her old home in Piketon, Parson Avery made

us one; The great house crowded full of guests of every

degree; The girls all envying Hannah Jane, the boys all

envying me. Her fingers then were taper, and her skin as white

as milk, Her brown hair, what a mass it was! and soft and

fine as silk; No wind-moved willow by a brook had ever such

a grace, Her form of Aphrodite, with a pure Madonna face. She had but meagre schooling; her little notes

to me Were full of little pot-hooks, and the worst ortho

graphy; Her “dear" she spelled with double e, and “kiss"

with but one s; But when one's crazed with passion what's a letter

more or less ? She blundered in her writing, and she blundered

when she spoke, And every rule of syntax, that old Murray made,

she broke; But she was beautiful and fresh, and I-weli, I

was young; Her form and face o'erbalanced all the blunders

of her tongue. I was but little better. True, I'd longer been at

school; My tongue and pen were run, perhaps, a little

more by rule; But that was all, the neighbors round who both of

us well knew, Said-which I believed-she was the better of the

two.

I know there is a difference; at reception and levee The brightest, wittiest, and most famed of women

smile on me; And everywhere I hold my place among the great

est men, And sometimes sigh, with Whittier's judge, “Alas!

it might have been." When they all crowd around me, stately dames

and brilliant belles, And yield to me the homage that all great success

compels, Discussing art and statecraft, and literature as

well, Fiom Homer down to Thackeray, and Sweden

borg on “hell," I can't forget that from these streams my wife has

never quaffed, Has never with Ophelia wept, nor with Jack Fal

staff laughed ! Of authors, actors, artists—why, she hardly knows

the names; She slept while I was speaking on the Alabama

claims. I can't forget-just at this point another form

appearsThe wife I wedded as she was before my prosper

ous years; I travel o'er the dreary road we traveled side

by side, And wonder what my share would be if Justice

should divide!

She had four hundred dollars left her from the

old estate; On that we married, and, thus poorly armoured,

faced our fate. I wrestled with my books; her task was harder far

than mine,'Twas how to make two hundred dollars do the

work of nine.

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At last I was admitted, then I had my legal lore, An office with a stove and desk, of books perhaps

a score; She had her beauty and her youth, and some

housewifely skill; And love for me and faith in me, and back of that

a will. I had no friends behind me--no influence to aid: I worked and fought for every little inch of ground

I made. And how she fought beside me! never woman

lived on less; In two long years she never spent a single cent

for dress. Ah! how she cried for joy when my first legal fight

was won,

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