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GEORGE HENRY BOKER. [From "The Book of the Dead."]

NEARNESS.

I know the sunshine of this hour,
Warm as the glow of early May,
Will never wake the dying flower,
Nor breathe a spirit through decay.

THROUGH the dark path, o'er which The scarlet leaves are doomed to

I tread,

One voice is ever at my ear,
One muffled form deserts the dead,
And haunts my presence far and

near.

In times of doubt, he whispers trust;
In danger, drops a warning word;
And when I waver from the just,
His low, complaining sigh is heard.

He follows me, with patient tread,
From daybreak unto evening's
close;

He bends beside me, head by head,
To scent the violet or the rose.

And sharing thus my smallest deed,
When all the works of day are past,
And sleep becomes a blessed need,

He lies against my heart at last.

Dear ghost, I feel no dread of thee;
A gracious comrade thou art grown;
Be near me, cheer, bend over me,
When the long sleep is settling
down!

IN AUTUMN.

IN hazy gold the hill-side sleeps,
The distance fades within the mist,
A cloud of lucid vapor creeps
Along the lake's pale amethyst.

The sun is but a blur of light,

The sky in ashy gray is lost;
But all the forest-trees are bright,
Brushed by the pinions of the frost.

I hear the clamor of the crow,
The wild-ducks' far discordant cry,
As swiftly out of sight they go,

In wedges driving through the sky.

fall,

The lake shall stiffen at a breath; The crow shall ring his dreary call Above December's waste of death.

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SARAH K. BOLTON.

A. B. BOYLE.

WIDOWED.

ENTERED INTO REST.

SOLDIER, statesman, scholar, friend, | SHE did not sigh for death, nor make

Brother to the lowliest one,
Life has come to sudden end,
But its work is grandly done.
Toil and cares of state are o'er;
Pain and struggle come no more.
Rest thee by Lake Erie.

Nations weep about thy bier,
Flowers are sent by queenly hands;
Bring the poor their homage here,

Come the great from many lands..
Be thy grave our Mecca, hence,
With its speechless eloquence;

Rest thee by Lake Erie.

Winter snows will wrap thy mound,
Spring will send its wealth of bloom,
Summer kiss the velvet ground,

Autumn leaves lie on thy tomb:
Home beside this inland sea,
Where thou lov'dst in life to be;

Rest thee by Lake Erie.

Strong for right, in danger brave,
Tender as with woman's heart,
Champion of the fettered slave,

Of the people's life a part.
To be loved is highest fame:
Garfield, an immortal name!
Rest thee by Lake Erie.

All thy gifted words shall be

sad moan,

Turning from smiles as one who solace fears,

But filled with kindly deeds the waiting years;

Yet, in her heart of hearts, she lived alone,

And in her voice there thrilled an undertone

That seemed to rise from soundless depths of tears;

As, when the sea is calm, one sometimes hears

The long, low murmur of a storm, unknown

Within the sheltered haven where he stands,

While tokens of a tempest overpast
The changing tide brings to the
shining sands;

So on the surface of her life was cast,
An ever-present shadow of the day,
When love and joy went hand in
hand away.

EMILY A. BRADDOCK.

AN UNTHRIFT.

BROWN bird, with a wisp in your
mouth for your nest,
Away! away! you have found your
guest.

Treasured speech from age to age; Golden-ringed bee, through the air

Thy heroic loyalty

Be a country's heritage; Mentor and thy precious ties Sacred in the nation's eyes.

Rest thee by Lake Erie.

From thy life and death shall come

An ennobled, purer race,
Honoring labor, wife, and home;
More of cheer and Christian grace.
Kindest, truest! till that day
When He rolls the stone away,

Rest thee by Lake Erie.

sea steer home,

The freight of sweets that lured you

to roam.

O reapers! well may you sing, to hold

Your arms brimful of the grain's
bossed goid.

But what to me that ye all go by?
An unthrift, empty-handed, fare I,
Yet I heard, as I passed, the noise
of a rill;

In my heart of hearts, it is singing
still,

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gray,

Nor offered a helping hand to her, So meek, so timid, afraid to stir,

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet

Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

At last came one of the merry troop— The gayest laddie of all the group:

He paused beside her and whispered low,

"I'll help you across if you wish to go."

Her aged hand on his strong young

arm

She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,

He guided her trembling feet along, Proud that his own were firm and strong.

And bent with the chill of the win-Then back again to his friends he

ter's day:

The street was wet with a recent

snow, And the woman's feet were agèd and slow.

She stood at the crossing and waited long,

Alone, uncared-for, amid the throng

Of human beings who passed her by.

Nor heeded the glance of her anxious

eye.

Down the street with laughter and shout,

Glad in the freedom of "school let out,"

Came the boys like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow piled white and deep.

Past the woman so old and gray

Hastened the children on their way,

went,

His young heart happy and well con

tent.

"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,

For all she's agèd and poor and slow;

And I hope some fellow will lend a hand

To help my mother, you understand,

If ever she's poor and old and gray, When her own dear boy is far away."

And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head

In her home that night, and the prayer she said

Was, "God be kind to the noble boy

Who is somebody's son and pride and joy."

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"O mither, dinna dee!"

"O bairn, by night or day

I hear nae sounds ava',
But voices of winds that blaw,

And the voices of ghaists that say,
Come awa'! come awa'!

The Lord that made the wind and made the sea,

Is hard on my bairn and me, And I melt in his breath like snaw." "O mither, dinna dee!"

"O bairn, it is but closing up the een, And lying down never to rise again. Many a strong man's sleeping hae I

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My summer has gone by,

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If this be dying, fair it is to die: Even as a garment weariness lays by,

And sweet were sleep, but for the Thou layest down life, to pass as time

sake o' thee.”

"O mither, dinna dee!"

[From Faces on the Wall.]

TO TRIFLERS.

Go, triflers with God's secret. Far, oh, far

Be your thin monotone, your brows flower-crowned,

Your backward-looking faces; for ye

mar

The pregnant time with silly sooth of sound,

With flowers around the feverish temples bound,

And withering in the close air of the feast.

Take all the summer pleasures ye have found,

hath passed,

From wintry rigors to a springtime

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