Then, with my waking thoughts So by my woes to be Or if, on joyful wing. Sun, moon and stars forgot, Upward I fly; Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! Sarah Flower Adams. Music by Dr. Lowell Mason. Let music swell the breeze, Sweet freedom's song: Let mortal tongues awake, Our fathers' God! to Thee, To Thee we sing: Long may our land be bright Great God, our King! S. F. Smith, LL.D. THE MYSTERIES The early sunlight filtered through the filmy draperies to where a wondering baby stretched his dimpled hands to catch the rays that lit his face and flesh as dawn lights up a rose. His startled gaze caught and held the dawn of day in rapturous looks that spoke the dawn of Self, for with the morning gleam out came the greater wonder. It was the mystery of Life. Across a cradle where, sunk in satin pillows, lay a still, pale form as droops a rose from some fierce heat, the evening shadows fell aslant, and spoke of peace. The twilight calm enclosed the world in silence deep as Truth, and on the little face the wondering look had given place to one of sweet repose. It was the mystery of Death. At head and foot the tapers burned. a golden light that clove the night as Hope the encircling gloom. Across the cot where lay the fair, frail form, his hand reached out to hers and met and clasped in tender, burning touch. Into the eyes of each there came the look that is the light of life; that spoke of self to each, yet told they two were one. It was the mystery to which the mysteries Life and Death bow down-the mystery of Love. James Hunt Cook. THE CLOSING YEAR 'Tis midnight's holy hour-and silence now Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood, Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form In mournful cadences that come abroad Like the far windharp's wild and touching wail, A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, Gone from the earth forever. 'Tis a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, Still chambers of the heart a spectre dim, Whose tunes are like the wizard voice of Time And holy visions that have passed away, Has gone, and with it many a glorious throng It heralded its millions to their home In the dim land of dreams. Remorseless TimeFierce spirit of the glass and scythe-what power Can stay him in his silent course, or melt His iron heart to pity? On, still on He presses, and forever. The proud bird, Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, Furls his broad wings at nightfall and sinks down To rest upon his mountain crag-but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path George D. Prentice. WITH LOVE-FROM MOTHER There's a letter on the bottom of the pile, And the postmark names a little unknown town. But the hurried man of business pushes all the others by. for gain, The while he reads what mother writes from up in Maine. There are quirks and scratchy quavers of the pen Where it struggled in the fingers old and bent. There are places that he has to read again And ponder on to find what mother meant. There are letters on his table that enclose some bouncing checks; There are letters giving promises of profits on his "specs:" But he tosses all the litter by, forgets the golden rain, Until he reads what mother writes from up in Maine. |