My heid is like to rend, Willie,

My heart is like to break; I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,

I'm dyin' for your sake!
O, lay your cheek to mine, Willie,
Your hand on my briest-bane, —
O, say ye'll think on me, Willie,
When I am deid and gane!

It's vain to comfort me, Willie,
Sair grief maun ha'e its will;
But let me rest upon your briest
To sab and greet my fill.
Let me sit on your knee, Willie,
Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willie,
I never sall see mair!

I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,
For the last time in my life,
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,
A mither, yet nae wife.

Ay, press your hand upon my heart,

And press it mair and mair,
Or it will burst the silken twine,
Sae strang is its despair.

O, wae 's me for the hour, Willie,
When we thegither met,

O, wae 's me for the time, Willie,

That our first tryst was set!
O, wae's me for the loanin' green
Where we were wont to gae,
And wae's me for the destinie
That gart me luve thee sae!

O, dinna mind my words, Willie,
I downa seek to blame;

But O, it's hard to live, Willie,
And dree a warld's shame!
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,
And hailin' ower your chin:
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,
For sorrow, and for sin ?

I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,
And sick wi' a' I see,

I canna live as I ha'e lived,
Or be as I should be.

But fauld unto your heart, Willie,

The heart that still is thine,

And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek Ye said was red langsyne.

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,
A sair stoun' through my heart;

O, haud me up and let me kiss

Thy brow ere we twa pairt. Anither, and anither yet!

How fast my life-strings break! — Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yard Step lichtly for my sake!

The lav'rock in the lift, Willie,
That lilts far ower our heid,
Will sing the morn as merrilie

Abune the clay-cauld deid;

And this green turf we 're sittin' on,

Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, Will hap the heart that luvit thee

As warld has seldom seen.

But O, remember me, Willie,

On land where'er ye be ;
And O, think on the leal, leal heart,
That ne'er luvit ane but thee!
And O, think on the cauld, cauld mools
That file my yellow hair,

That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin
Ye never sall kiss mair!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

RESIGNATION.

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, Clothed with celestial grace;

But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair!

Sturdy of heart and stout of limb,

From eyes that drew half their light from him,

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,

Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,

May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild

In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child:

In his spring, on this spring day.

Passes away,

All the pride of boy-life begun,

All the hope of life yet to run;

Who dares to question when One saith "Nay." Murmur not, only pray.

MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.

THIS book is all that's left me now,
Tears will unbidden start,
With faltering lip and throbbing brow
I press it to my heart.

For many generations past
Here is our family tree;

My mother's hands this Bible clasped,
She, dying, gave it me.

Ah well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear;

Who round the hearthstone used to close,

After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said

In tones my heart would thrill!
Though they are with the silent dead,
Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book
To brothers, sisters, dear;
How calm was my poor mother's look,
Who loved God's word to hear!
Her angel face, I see it yet!

What thronging memories come! Again that little group is met

Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,

Thy constancy I've tried;

When all were false, I found thee true,

My counsellor and guide.

The mines of earth no treasures give
That could this volume buy;
In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die!

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

GOD'S-ACRE.

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed 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 At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the

sod,

And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God,

This is the place where human harvests grow!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE.

THE night is late, the house is still;
The angels of the hour fulfil
Their tender ministries, and move
From couch to couch in cares of love.
They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife,
The happiest smile of Charlie's life,
And lay on baby's lips a kiss,
Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss ;
And, as they pass, they seem to make
A strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's sake."

My listening heart takes up the strain,
And gives it to the night again,
Fitted with words of lowly praise,

And patience learned of mournful days,
And memories of the dead child's ways.

His will be done, His will be done!
Who gave and took away my son,
In "the far land" to shine and sing
Before the Beautiful, the King,
Who every day doth Christmas make,
All starred and belled for Charlie's sake.

For Charlie's sake I will arise;

I will anoint me where he lies,
And change my raiment, and go in
To the Lord's house, and leave my sin
Without, and seat me at his board,
Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord.
For wherefore should I fast and weep,
And sullen moods of mourning keep?
I cannot bring him back, nor he,
For any calling, come to me.
The bond the angel Death did sign,
God sealed-for Charlie's sake, and mine.
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER

UNDER THE CROSS.

I CANNOT, cannot say,

Out of my bruised and breaking heart, Storm-driven along a thorn-set way, While blood-drops start

From every pore, as I drag on,

"Thy will, O God, be done!"