"BEHOLD, THE FIELDS ARE WHITE.”

STILL in accents sweet and strong

Sounds forth the ancient word,

"More reapers for white harvest fields,

More laborers for the Lord!"

We hear the call; in dreams no more

In selfish ease we lie,

But, girded for our Father's work,
Go forth beneath his sky.

Where prophets' word, and martyrs' blood,
And prayers of saints were sown,

We, to their labors entering in,

Would reap where they have strown.

O Thou whose call our hearts has stirred!
To do thy will we come ;

Thrust in our sickles at thy word,

And bear our harvest home.

HYMN OF WINTER.

IS winter now; the fallen snow

'TIS

Has left the heavens all coldly clear; Through leafless boughs the sharp winds blow, And all the earth lies dead and drear.

And yet God's love is not withdrawn ;
His life within the keen air breathes,

His beauty paints the crimson dawn,

And clothes the boughs with glittering wreaths.

And though abroad the sharp winds blow,
And skies are chill, and frosts are keen,

Home closer draws her circle now,

And warmer glows her light within.

O God, who giv'st the winters cold,

As well as sunbeams' joyous rays!

Us warmly in thy love enfold,

And keep us through life's wintry days.

The two following hymns, with two others, were written for the little book of Vespers which Mr. Longfellow prepared in 1859:

VESPER HYMNS.

NOW on land and sea descending,
Brings the night its peace profound;

Let our vesper-hymn be blending
With the holy calm around.

Soon as dies the sunset glory,

Stars of heaven shine out above,
Telling still the ancient story,—
Their Creator's changeless love.

Now our wants and burdens leaving
To His care, who cares for all,
Cease we fearing, cease we grieving;
At his touch our burdens fall.
As the darkness deepens o'er us,
Lo! eternal stars arise;

Hope and Faith and Love rise glorious,
Shining in the spirit's skies.

AGAIN, as evening's shadow falls,

We gather in these hallowed walls;
And vesper-hymn and vesper-prayer
Rise mingling on the holy air.

May struggling hearts that seek release
Here find the rest of God's own peace;
And, strengthened here by hymn and prayer,

Lay down the burdens and the care.

O God, our light! to thee we bow;
Within all shadows standest thou:

Give deeper calm than night can bring;
Give sweeter songs than lips can sing.

Life's tumult we must meet again,

We cannot at the shrine remain ;

But in the spirit's secret cell

May hymn and prayer for ever dwell.

JAMES T. FIELDS.

(1820.)

JAMES THOMAS FIELDS was born in Portsmouth, N.H., Dec. 31, 1820. He has long been a resident of Boston, and was for many years the partner of the well-known and eminent publishing firm of "Ticknor & Fields." He has well been called the "Poet's Publisher of America." Two of his own principal poems were given before the Mercantile Library Association of Boston, - one on 'Commerce," when Edward Everett was the orator of the occasion, in 1838; and another, "The Post of Honor," in 1845, when Daniel Webster delivered the oration. In 1847 he visited Europe, and after his return published a volume of his verses in 1849. A small edition of his briefer poems from this volume, with additional pieces, appeared from the press of Metcalf & Co., Cambridge, in 1854, for more private distribution. A similar volume embracing pieces from the editions already mentioned, and including some fresh offerings, was issued in 1858, under the title of “A Few Verses for a Few Friends." Many of his productions have from time to time been given to the magazines, and especially to the "Atlantic Monthly," of which he was editor from 1862 to 1870. During his connection with the house of Ticknor & Fields, one of his chief literary labors was the supervision of twenty-one volumes of De Quincey's writings, published by that firm. His long and intimate acquaintance with the leading English as well as American authors in our day is familiarly known to the public. Out of these personal relations and friendships he wrote for the "Atlantic" a series of charming papers, called "Our Whispering Gallery," which have since appeared in a handsome volume, under the title of "Yesterdays with Authors." Of a kindred nature are some of the very interesting popular lectures with which he has delighted numerous audiences during the last few years.

From the small edition of his poems, published by Metcalf & Co., we make a few selections specially adapted to the present volume, and characterized by all this author's purity of thought, refinement of sentiment, and delicacy of taste.

OUR FIRESIDE EVENING HYMN.

HITHER, bright angels, wing your flight,

And stay your gentle presence here; Watch round, and shield us through the night, That every shade may disappear.

How sweet when Nature claims repose,
And darkness floats in silence nigh,
To welcome in, at daylight's close,

Those radiant troops that gem the sky! .

To feel that unseen hands we clasp,
While feet unheard are gathering round,
To know that we in faith may grasp
Celestial guards from heavenly ground!

O ever thus, with silent prayer

For those we love, may night begin,-
Reposing safe, released from care,
Till morning leads the sunlight in.

A POOR MAN'S EPITAPH.

HE was not what the world counts rich,

Houses and lands had none in store; But, blessed with strength for honest toil, He neither asked nor cared for more.

His neighbors moved in higher ranks,
And far above him all could shine;
He lived with Health, and brave Content,
And water drank instead of wine.

"Enough for me," he said, "if here

My table's spread when hunger calls, To leave me something for a friend Whose lot than mine still lower falls.

"And if the rainy days should come,

And I've no silver hoarded by,
How can I want, if Him I trust

Who feeds the ravens when they cry?
"Around my board a place I'll keep

For pallid lips that pine in woe,
And better gifts than I impart

Shall unseen angel-hands bestow!"

See where he sleeps who served mankind, -
Who wept and watched with weeping eyes;
Walk round his grave with reverent step,
For there a more than hero lies.

THE FLIGHT OF ANGELS.

TWO pilgrims to the Holy Land
Passed through our open door,
Two sinless angels, hand in hand,
Have reached the promised shore.

We saw them take their heavenward flight
Through floods of drowning tears,
And felt in woe's bewildering night
The agony of years.

But now we watch the golden path
Their blessed feet have trod,

And know that voice was not in wrath,
Which called them both to God.

THE DEAD.

"Still the same, no charm forgot, —
Nothing lost that Time had given."

FORGET not the Dead, who have loved, who have left us,

Who bend o'er us now, from their bright homes above; But believe never doubt that the God who bereft us

Permits them to mingle with friends they still love.