BEYOND these chilling winds and gloomy skies,
Beyond death's cloudy portal,

That we may praise thee to eternity. Allelujah! There is a land where beauty never dies,

A land whose life is never dimmed by shade,

Whose fields are ever vernal;
Where nothing beautiful can ever fade,
But blooms for aye eternal.

We may not know how sweet its balmy air,
How bright and fair its flowers;

We may not hear the songs that echo there,
Through those enchanted bowers.

The city's shining towers we may not see
With our dim earthly vision,

For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key
That opes the gates elysian.

But sometimes, when adown the western sky
A fiery sunset lingers,

Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly,
Unlocked by unseen fingers.

And while they stand a moment half ajar,
Gleams from the inner glory

Stream brightly through the azure vault afar
And half reveal the story.

O land unknown! O land of love divine!
Father, all-wise, eternal !

0, guide these wandering, wayworn feet of mine
Into those pastures vernal!

"ONLY WAITING."

ANONYMOUS.

poor;
They'll home again, full laden, to thy door;
The streams of love flow back where they begin,
For springs of outward joys lie deep within.

Even let them flow, and make the places glad
Where dwell thy fellow-men. Shouldst thou be sad,
And earth seem bare, and hours, once happy, press
Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness
More lonely for the past, thou then shalt hear
The music of those waters running near;
And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream,

[A very aged man in an almshouse was asked what he was doing And thine eye gladden with the playing beam

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; Till the stars of heaven are breaking Through the twilight soft and gray.

Only waiting till the reapers

Have the last sheaf gathered home, For the summer time is faded,

And the autumn winds have come. Quickly, reapers! gather quickly

The last ripe hours of my heart, For the bloom of life is withered, And I hasten to depart.

Only waiting till the angels

Open wide the mystic gate,

At whose feet I long have lingered,
Weary, poor, and desolate.
Even now I hear the footsteps,

And their voices far away;

That now upon the water dances, now
Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough.

Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell
The power that wrought so beautiful a spell?
In thine own bosom, Brother? Then as thine
Guard with a reverent fear this power divine.

And if, indeed, 't is not the outward state,
But temper of the soul by which we rate
Sadness or joy, even let thy bosom move
With noble thoughts and wake thee into love,
And let each feeling in thy breast be given
An honest aim, which, sanctified by Heaven,
And springing into act, new life imparts,
Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts.
Sin clouds the mind's clear vision,
Around the self-starved soul has spread a dearth.
The earth is full of life; the living Hand
Touched it with life; and all its forms expand
With principles of being made to suit
Man's varied powers and raise him from the brute.
And shall the earth of higher ends be full,
Earth which thou tread'st, - - and thy poor mind

be dull?

Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep?