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And the resurrection's power
Comes to every dying hour.
When the soul, with vision clear,
Learns that heaven is always near,
Never more shall it be said,
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.

Lizzie Dote:

My Dead.
I CANNOT think of them as dead

Who walk with me no more;
Along the path of Life I tread,

They have but gone before.
The Father's house is mansioned fair

Beyond my vision dim;
All souls are His, and, here or there,

Are living unto Him.
And still their silent ministry

Within my heart hath place,
As when on earth they walked with me

And met me face to face.

Their lives are made forever mine;

What they to me have been
Hath left henceforth its seal and sign

Engraven deep within.
Mine are they by an ownership

Nor time nor death can free;
For God hath given to Love to keep
Its own eternally.

F. L. Hosmer


SOMETIME, when all life's lessons have been learned,

And Sun and Stars forevermore have set, The things which our weak judgments here have spurned,

The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet, Will flash before us, out of life's dark night

As Stars shine most in deeper tints of blue; And we shall see how all God's plans are right,

And how what seemed reproof was love most true.

And we shall see, how, while we frown and sigh,

God's plans go on as best for you and me; How when we called, He heeded not our cry

Because his wisdom to the end could see, And e'en as prudent parents disallow

Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now

Life's sweetest things because it seemeth good. And if sometime, commingled with life's wine,

We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink, Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine

Pours out this potion for our lips to drink. And if some friend we love is lying low

Where human kisses cannot reach his face, Oh! do not blame the loving Father so,

But bear your sorrow with obedient grace ; And

you shall shortly know, that lengthened breath Is not the sweetest gift God sends His friend, And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death

Conceals the fairest boon His love can send. If we could push ajar the gates of life

And stand within, and all God's workings see, We could interpret all this doubt and strife,

And for each mystery could find a key.

But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart;

God's plans, like lilies pure and white, unfold;
We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart,

Time will reveal the chalices of gold.
And if, through patient toil, we reach the land

Where tired feet, with sandals loose, may rest,
When we shall clearly know and understand,
I think that we shall say that “God knew best.”

Mrs. May Riley Smith.

Not Death.
Nor death, but life. Thank God that she has

That He has sent her peace,
That from the pain and shadow of its prison

Her soul has found release.


may not know the glory and the gladness That on the spirit shine, That bore on earth its agony and sadness

With patience so divine.

We only know her weariness is ended,

That she from pain is free,
That her pure soul has to its God ascended,

In joy and liberty.

'Tis ours to prize the nature we inherit,

Which she has glorified.
Nor doubt the power of the immortal spirit

Since she has lived and died.

O silent lips ! the lessons you have taught us

We tell with falling tears:
O noble life ! what blessing thou hast brought us

Through all thy weary years !
As all unconscious of thy wondrous beauty,

Thou passest into light,
May thy sweet patience fill our hearts, and duty

Grow holy in our sight.

L. M. e.

SUNRISE!- her feet have touched the hills of God;

Heaven's morning air blows sweet upon her brow;

She sees the King in all his beauty now, And walks his courts with full salvation shod.

“ Looking to’ard Sunset,” even here she caught

Prophetic hints of those far, shining lands

That lie beyond,— like one who understands The sign, ere yet the miracle is wrought.

And so she went: ah, we who stay below,

Watching the radiance of her upward flight,

Who, who of us shall reach such lofty height, Or leave behind so fair an after-glow?

Caroline A. Mason.

AS ONE who leaves a prison cell,

And looks, with glad though dazzled eye,

Once more on wood and field and sky,
And feels again the quickening spell
Of Nature thrill through every vein,

I leave my former self behind,

And, free once more in heart and mind,
Shake off the old, corroding chain.
Free from my past -

jailer dread And with the Present clasping hands,

Beneath fair skies, through sunny lands, Which memory's ghosts ne'er haunt, I tread. The pains and griefs of other days

May, shadow-like, pursue me yet;

But toward the sun my face is set, His golden light on all my ways.

S. S. Conant.

— а

The Wead.
THE dead are like the stars by day,

Withdrawn from mortal eye,
Yet holding unperceived their way

Through the unclouded sky.
By them, through holy hope and love,

We feel, in hours serene,
Connected with a world above,

Immortal and unseen.

For death his sacred seal hath set

On bright and bygone hours;
And they we mourn are with us yet,

Are more than ever ours,

Ours by the pledge of love and faith,

By hopes of heaven on high ; By trust, triumphant over death,

In immortality.


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