Few lips that have kissed not a motionless brow, A face from each fireside has fled, But we know that our loved ones are watching us now In the beautiful land of the dead. Not a charm that we knew 'ere the boundary was crossed, And we stood in the valley alone; Not a trait that we prize in our darlings is lost, They have fairer and lovelier grown; As the lilies burst forth when the shadows of night Into bondage at daybreak are led, So they bask in the glow of the pillar of light, In the beautiful land of the dead. O, the dead, our dead, the beautiful dead! Are close to the heart of eternity wed; When the last deed is done and the last word is said, We will meet in the beautiful land of the dead. HOME, SWEET HOME. THERE'S a beautiful realm in the faraway past All lovely with sunshine and flowers, And voices as sweet as songs of the birds, Laugh away the bright, happy hours; I can hear them now, come echoing back, As I watch the starry dome, And memory bells chime soft and low Home, Sweet Home. There's a coming step! now a gentle hand Rests lightly upon my browA whispered word and the sweet caress Call me back to the beautiful now, To another real where flowers bloom, From which nothing can tempt me to roam, And my heart throbs chime with voices sweet: Home, Sweet Home. THERE is a season of the year when summer is past and autumn's approach recorded, known as Indian summer. The sun has ceased to pour forth its fervid heat and has dropped back to tropical climes. The frosts of autumn have robbed the leaves of their rich green hue and substituted in its place the golden tints of fall. Some of the leaves have been long-lived and held on to see their second childhood. Others have fulfilled their mission designed by the Creator, and one by one have fallen off and sunk to their mother earth. Those that remain, lift their heads at the season's approach-and as old age of man-hope for a protracted existence. The hills, with few flowers here and there, still grapple with autumn's chill to retain their verdure. The fields, yellow with fruits, offer praises for their bounteous supplies for man's subsistence. The brooklet rustles along with nature's song, to bear earth's tears away to prevent its sadness. birds perch upon some leafless limb and sing their spring-time songs. The dove has cooed to his side its mate, and sits basking in the warm sun rays. At eve the herd wind slowly along their homeward paths in search of shelter. The air is still at times, and again the cricket's chirp may be heard everywhere around. But what needs man to be sad to know this season-a second favor from Heaven-cannot last long? There's nothing sad in fall save it may remind us of another misspent year. True, nature's register may have recorded thereon sad events, The probably the death of some father, mother, brother or sister,-but it was God's will. We should be thankful that they were not taken a year sooner. Soon winter's clouds will o'er-hover, the storms will come, the rain will beat and the winds will blow, yet the same favoring Hand rules all. If we live, we may expect the storms to pass, and the poetry of spring to cheer our hearts again. If we die, and die "the death of the righteous,' we may expect to find our eternal spring-time in heaven. " THERE is a star that shineth Above the thickest gloom, And the sorrowing heart divineth Its light beyond the tomb. With steady constant ray it gleams Upon the path of Youth, And tingeth all its golden dreams With colorings of truth. Far out upon the ocean Its cheering light is shed, Where death and danger cope, Assuring with a firm control Doth shine this Star of Hope. -REAR ADMIRAL STEVENS. And whispered tenderly : "Till Death us join, Lo, thou art mine "And when Death joins we never more Shall know an aching heart; So up the hill and down the hill That Death's cold dart But one sad day she stood alone She drew the ring from off her hand, Oh, man, who graved With careful art, Till Death us part,' I'm looking out the westward window, Where the sun sinks slow to rest, With lengthened shadows softly creeping Over hill and mountain crest; The forests and the groves are vocal With the songster's parting lay, And redolent are all the woodlands With the hue of parting day. The streamlet murmurs down the hillside, Flowing onward toward the sea, The cloud expanse is being gilded |