I saw in that old churchyard

An angel, in thought, appear,

Who said to me, in reproving tones,

"Why dost thou linger here?

"Wouldst thou learn what thyself shalt be?

Then look beneath the sod;

Thy body shall sleep in the cold, cold clay
When thy spirit returns to God.

"The golden hours of thy life

Are quickly passing away;

Arise! thou dreamer, arise!

And work while 'tis call'd to-day."

Then I walk'd from that old churchyard,
With slow and measured tread;

But my solemn and silent stream of thought
Was turn'd from the sleeping dead

To the many works of life

Which I had left undone;

And I sigh'd, and trembled with mournful look,

As I gazed on life's setting sun.

I came from that old churchyard,

As I never came before,

Determined to spend in idle dreams
The hours of life no more.

LIFE'S MARCHING SONG.

E not ever vacillating,

Changing still from side to side, Fickle-minded, hesitating,

Fearing ever to decide.

Seek a mind by truth enlighten'd,
Scorn the narrow bigot's name,
Keep thy soul for ever brighten'd
By a high and noble aim.

Dare to venture on the ocean

Where men never sail'd before;

Fear not to unfurl thy banner

On the undiscover'd shore.

Let not men's opinions daunt thee;
If they say what is not true,
If in rashness they condemn thee,

They shall bear their judgment too.

Do the work to-day appointed,
Shun all indolent delay;

Draw not bills upon to-morrow,
Pay the debts of life to-day!

View with eagle-eye the present,
Hold it up to reason's light,

Pray that Heaven may guide thy judgment,
Trust in God, and do the right.

VISION OF THOUGHT.

OME thoughts there are of a wandering

race,

Which have no certain dwelling-place,

Whence they come, no man doth know,

How long they will stay, or when they will

go.

Some thoughts are welcome: whenever they come They are always sure to find a home;

And the chords of the heart, which in silence have

lain,.

Break forth to greet them with joyful strain.

And thoughts there are, bright, happy, and free,
Array'd in white robes of simplicity;
They are angels of mercy ever flying,
Sweet balm to wounded hearts applying.

And there are thoughts of awful form
Which spring from the tempest and spirit-storm;
Sad and dread is the message they bear,

Their look is terror,-their robes despair.

And thoughts there are of mien sublime

Which come from the far-off fields of time
And visit the heart, as they onward go,
To the home of eternity, calm and slow.

And there are thoughts of pressure, and pain, Of slumbering griefs which long have lain Unknown to our friends, except by the sigh, The absent look, and the tearful eye.

And there are thoughts of gladsome birth Which come on the wings of joy and mirth, Filling the heart with laughter, and gladness, Flowers which bloom in the midst of sadness.

And there are thoughts which ever keep
A faithful guard o'er mysteries deep;
Nor hope, nor fear, nor pain, nor pleasure,
Can make them show their hidden treasure.

And thoughts there are which restless burn, And strive, and strain, and twist, and turn, Abiding still in perpetual strife,

Until express'd in some act of life.